


The Serpent and the Angel

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Beast Crowley!, Beauty - Robin McKinley - Freeform, Beauty Aziraphale!, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Blood and Injury, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Robin McKinley is my hero, Slow Burn, vague descriptions of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-23 13:55:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 54,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23512576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: “I hope the library pleasssses you.”Aziraphale shrieked, jumped and whirled around. Behind him, at the entrance to the library, sitting in a coal-black glimmering coil of shining scales, sat the largest snake he had ever seen in his life, twice as large as the average man. It’s angular head and bright yellow eyes regarded him curiously and calmly, and its thin, forked tongue flickered out, as if to taste the air.Aziraphale felt the blood rush from his head and his vision grew white around the edges and he promptly lost consciousness.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 122
Kudos: 348





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is really a crossover fic of Good Omens (TV) and Robin McKinley's fantastic young adult novel, "Beauty: A Retelling of the Story of Beauty and the Beast". It was published in 1978, two years after I was born, and my mother read it to me when I was a child. I was completely enchanted by her novel, and have reread it several times through my teenage years and into adulthood. 
> 
> I used many elements from McKinley's story in this fic. The invisible servants, the shifting hallways of the castle, the books that have yet to be written in the beast's library. The rest of it, Aziraphale's home life, Gabriel and Anathema and the climax of the plot is all me, but if I'm being honest, this fic is really just a love letter to McKinley's novel. I'd strongly suggest reading it if you love Beauty and the Beast as much as I do. Also, her book The Hero and the Crown is fantastic. 
> 
> I just googled her for the first time and saw that we share a birthday, and I'm a bit misty eyed.
> 
> This isn't a WIP really. It's finished and is being polished up and beta'd, so it will all be up soon! Thank you in advance for reading. I hope you enjoy! <3
> 
> Thank you emilycare, for your wonderful input and plot ideas. And of course, your patience with my utter inability to remember where punctuation is supposed to go in sentences containing dialogue. You are an angel.

Aziraphale was a good uncle. He doted on his several nieces and nephews as well as his growing brood of grand-nieces and grand-nephews, all the while conveniently ignoring the fact that he loathed his brothers and sister. Gabriel was the kind of block headed, battle hungry, book-averse, insensitive, cruel prat that Aziraphale had always loathed in general, and he probably developed the inclination to dislike this particular type of person from being related to Gabriel in the first place. 

Uriel and Sandalphon weren’t much better, following around after Gabriel like an eager entourage, hoping to curry his favor and tripping over themselves trying to get his attention. Michael, aloof and always in control of her faculties never joined her brothers in their hero worship of Gabriel, but was often stiff and cool towards Aziraphale, and towards her own husband, Androus, and even towards her children. Sometimes, Aziraphale wondered if she had a heart at all. 

It was probably because of the coldness and derision and general unpleasantness of his siblings that Aziraphale turned to the children for comfort and companionship. And they all adored him for it. He was “Uncle Zira” to everyone under the age of 25, and “Aziraphale” to his siblings and the townspeople. Everyone knew him, as he was bright and friendly and always had a funny tale to tell or a kind word for anyone who crossed his path. The Fells were a relatively wealthy family of merchants and soldiers, and were well respected in their village of Tadfield, but beyond being respected, Aziraphale in particular was loved.

If Aziraphale Fell were truly honest with himself, his siblings weren’t all that awful. They were good souls underneath it all, working hard to keep their large manor house clean and orderly, hunting wild game to stock the larder and doing their best to keep the hoard of small children entertained and educated. They’d wisely come to Aziraphale to ask him to teach the children. He was the obvious choice, being the only member of their immediate family who could read, and because he had so many books. His tower room, on the west side of the great manor house, was packed to the brim with books of all types. Religious scriptures, poetry, history, maps and geographical texts, adventure tales, medical journals. All manner of books lined the walls of his small bedroom. 

Aziraphale’s father, deceased these many years now, had known how to read, but hadn’t bothered to teach his wife or any of his children. Little Aziraphale had stolen the only book of his father’s he could reach while standing on tip toes with his short, plump legs. The book was large and stuck out farther from the bottom shelf, which was the only way he’d been able to pry it loose and run off with it. It was a book on military strategy, and he’d gone straightway to the only other person in town who’d known how to read at that time. Her name was Madame Tracy, and she was the town witch. No one called her that to her face, but she had a small, witchy looking cottage at the edge of the village. The inside of her cottage was hung about with bundles of dried herbs, and there were stacks of copper pots, wooden boxes full of animal bones and clay beads and a great black, cast iron cauldron in her sitting room. So if she hadn’t wanted the reputation, she had done very little in the way of deflecting it. 

Tracy had taken a shine to Aziraphale right away. He’d shown up at her door, small, pale face determined and oh so earnest under an unruly mop of white-blond curls, a large and intimidating leather tome clasped in his little hands. The book was half the size of the boy who carried it, and he was only barely able to keep ahold of it with his small, tenacious fingers.

“I’d like you teach me to read please.” he’d said, as simple as that, and she’d ushered him inside quickly, before one of his insufferable family members could spot him and start in on her for  _ corrupting the youth. _

“Would you now?” She’d asked indulgently and with more than a little surprise. It wasn’t every day that a wealthy lord’s son showed up at one’s door asking politely to be taught to read. “And why is that little one?”

“Because it will help me learn about the world.” The small, toe headed little boy had explained patiently as he’d walked inside. He’d immediately looked around him with wide, sea colored eyes at all the hanging bundles and stacks and dangling bird bones that festooned Tracy’s cottage. His small, rose bud mouth falling open in awe. “Is it true what they say madam? That you’re a witch?” he piped, continuing to ogle the profusion of occult materials before him.

Tracy chuckled. “I suppose it is. I myself prefer midwife, herbalist or healer, as ‘witch’ has become a derogatory term over the years since my great grandmother Agnes’s time. But yes, you could call me a witch if you so desired.” 

“Only if you wouldn’t mind,” the boy had responded, turning his large eyes to her face. “I do not wish to be insulting.”

Tracy had been impressed with his courteousness and his earnestness, and so she’d set about teaching him to read. She’d taken the book on military strategy and laid it aside on a wooden stool, then brought out a stack of children’s books she had in a box for safekeeping, should anyone need them. She’d sat little Aziraphale down on her lap, next to a glowing oil lamp and had slowly taught him his letters. 

He’d come to her everyday for weeks until he could read on his own. He was a sharp lad, and learned quite quickly, compared to the other children in the village. He seemed hungry for more and more words, and soon graduated from the simple children’s books, to more involved fairy tales, and then, after a few months, to the reading of adult books on herb lore and history. Tracy was astonished at his skill, and proud of him too. They’d developed quite a close friendship over the months that he visited her, until she felt like she might be a sort of honorary auntie to him. 

They decided together that telling his parents or siblings wouldn’t be the best thing, considering the fact that Tracy was already suspected of being a practitioner of the dark arts by the Fell family. 

After Aziraphale was fully capable of reading all manner of books, Tracy had sent him on his way, saying he could come to visit her any time, but that she was confident that he could read on his own now. She was pleasantly surprised when he did come back and visit, at least once or twice a week, to regale her of his adventures about the manor house, and the surrounding lands and to tell her of the books he’d managed to read. He’d gone straightway to the village chapel next, to inquire after the religious tomes he may be able to get his hands on. The priest, thinking he might have a young, new successor on his doorstep, allowed Aziraphale full access to all of his religious books, and the little boy had devoured them immediately. 

As he grew older, he found ways to procure more and more books. He would charm his family’s servants and press a few extra coppers into their palms when they would head out on journeys to the coast, asking them to bring him back any books they could procure at far away markets. He found his way into his father’s small collection of books on military maneuvers and trade agreements and the care and maintenance of horses and gobbled those up as well. Soon, he became the preeminent scholar in the village. By the age of twenty five, townspeople would come to him to answer their questions, or recommend solutions to their household problems. 

He returned over and over again to Tracy’s hut, eventually to learn more of herb lore and midwifery from her, until he became a sort of understudy. He read any and all books on the care of babies and pregnant women, as well as anatomical books that hadn’t been outlawed by the church. He attended several births with Tracy, watching carefully and assisting, and, when there was a complication with his second nieces’ delivery, when Tracy was away, visiting her sister two towns over, he was able to step in to help and saved both Michael and the baby’s life. 

Still, despite all his knowledge and his abilities as a midwife, he showed no interest in hunting, or battle or his father’s overseas trading business, which fell apart swiftly when there was a great storm out at sea and his father lost all but his own ship and nearly his life. Aziraphale could not bring himself to court any of the young ladies of the village, no matter how lovely or well bred they were, and so he was branded as a strange and priestly figure, as a man who had no interest in the life of a father or husband, no desires of the flesh. 

But Aziraphale  _ did _ desire. He simply desired those he was not allowed to want. Ever since he was a small lad, he’d felt himself drawn towards boys instead of girls, and as he grew older, men instead of women. This was strongly frowned upon in his village and throughout the land. Yes, it existed, this hunger for those of one’s same sex, but it was often hushed up and discouraged as such a union could not bring children into the world, and the Lord God wanted His people to be fruitful and to conquer the land. If Aziraphale’s siblings had any inkling that he would much rather settle down with a handsome lad than a pretty lass, they did not broach the subject, preferring instead to treat him with a stiff sort of respect, but without any warmth. 

For Aziraphale’s part, he saw himself as already having many children. He had six nieces, seven nephews, five great nieces and four great nephews that he saw virtually every day. He taught the children bible stories, history, literature and simple mathematics during daily classes, and with the help of his eldest niece Anathema. She’d been the baby he’d saved when Michael’s delivery had gone south, and ever since that day, he’d felt a special bond with her. She’d developed a love of books and learning that rivaled his own and he’d happily taken her to Madam Tracy’s to learn all that the (now elderly) woman could teach her on herb lore, pregnancy, childbirth, and the ways of nature and natural science. For his part, Aziraphale taught Anathema all about history, geography, anatomy, mathematics and animal husbandry. He taught all of his nieces and nephews really, but only Anathema devoured books the way he did. Her bright brown eyes would sparkle whenever he’d bring up a new subject or pull out a new volume to loan her, and she was his constant companion, to the point where her mother, Aziraphale’s sister, grew snappish towards Aziraphale out of jealousy. 

Gabriel, once their father’s shipping business had fallen apart, had devoted much of his time to military endeavors, defending their southern borders from invading forces. Over the years, these defenses became invading parties of his own, and Gabriel, Uriel and Sandalphon would ride further and further south with their ever increasing armies and conquer the villages and towns outside of their own province. By doing so, they amassed a good bit of wealth, and by marrying off several of Tadfield’s young men to young women in the villages they conquered, they widened the scope of their lands. The villages they overtook were left largely unharmed. They were only required to pay a somewhat steep yearly tithing to Fell manor and they’d be allowed to retain their own religion and keep to their own customs. 

Gabriel was ruthless, but he was also intelligent. He found a way to exponentially increase the wealth and power of his family and their once humble lands through the use of a combination of brute force and political acumen, until the village of Tadfield became the kingdom of Tadfield. And a large kingdom it was, spanning hundreds of miles in all directions. 

The years passed by. Aziraphale’s mother and father died of a bad case of pneumonia one winter, leaving Gabriel the official head of the manor and monarch of Tadfield kingdom. Aziraphale’s life did not change much. He continued amassing books, but refused to take any that had been pillaged or stolen from those in outlying provinces. He’d either take a long trip with Anathema to visit other villages and inquire about their spare volumes, and then offer to pay good money for them, or he’d continue to pay traveling Tadfieldians to pick up any books they encountered along their journeys with the coins he gave them for that purpose (plus a little extra to make the trip worth it). 

Everywhere he went he was greeted with warmth and hospitality, for far and wide the rumors had spread of the King of Tadfield’s kindly priest-brother and his love of books. Aziraphale was not technically a priest, for he could not stomach the loathing the church had for those who loved like he did, but he had read every single volume of religious literature he could get his hands on, and he’d never married. He also dressed himself simply in pale trousers and a tartan tunic, far more subtle attire than his brothers’ silks and brocades. The combination had people referring to him as “father” as if he were a priest, or “brother” as if he were some sort of monk.

He let people call him what they may, secretly amused by their assumption that a learned, unmarried man with no children must be a part of some sort of religious institution. 

The years crept by and he remained quite happy in his simple life. He had many friends in the expanding town, and his niece Anathema at his side to help him with teaching and research into new subjects. He only wanted the best for her, and told her that she should find herself a nice young man to start a family with. She only chuckled and kissed him on the cheek. “Now why would I do that?” She asked with a merry gleam in her eye “When I can keep having adventures with you Uncle Zira?”

Aziraphale was flattered that she loved and cared for him so, and he was of course pleased that she wanted to continue to be his assistant and friend, but he worried that she was letting life pass her by. She was already eighteen, and didn’t have any friends outside of her own family. It wasn’t right for a beautiful young woman to spend all of her time with her nose buried in a book, following her old, bachelor uncle around on book finding missions. Aziraphale knew she liked men, had seen her eyeing a few of the village lads, but she seemed to lack the motivation to go to any of the balls and festivities where young people met and paired up with one another. 

When he’d asked her why not, she’d snorted derisively. “Yuck! Those things are so stiff and boring! I’d have to put on a big, frilly dress and do something unfortunate to my hair and pretend to have no brains in my head all evening. And what for? Only to be approached by some muscle bound lunk who thinks the Parthenon is a fancy type of dessert? No thank you!”

Aziraphale knew how she felt. He shuddered at the memory of the events he’d been forced to attend as a young man. Plenty of women had sidled up to talk to him, hoping to find themselves in the enviable position of wife to a manor lord. Their interest waned quickly though when they found themselves on the receiving end of a long, complex lecture on the history of the northeastern mousing hawk, or the intricate mechanics of different types of drawbridge pulleys. Eventually, when Aziraphale simply would  _ not _ ogle their exposed cleavage, and continued going on and on about things in books, they’d wandered off to find more red blooded men to flirt with. Aziraphale had always sighed with relief. He didn’t tell anyone, but he’d purposefully made his conversations extra dull and mundane in order to politely drive the women away. 

The only one who hadn’t turned tail and run had been young Deirdre Price. She’d called him out on his boring conversations with a glint in her eye and asked him about himself. Very few people had ever thought to do that, and so Aziraphale had been shocked into answering all of her questions candidly. She’d then told him of her likes and dislikes, her family history and her life experiences. She’d patted him on the arm after their lengthy and enjoyable chat with a wink and another smile, saying “Hold on there Aziraphale. The evening will be over soon and you can return to your books.” Ever since that day, they’d become fast friends. And when she’d met and married Arthur Young, becoming Deirdre Young, Aziraphale had delivered their son Adam. 

And so Aziraphale knew full well how dull and painful those balls and dances and social gatherings designed to pair up young people could be. He knew better than to encourage Anathema to attend them, but he also knew that she longed to have children of her own, and that she had a heart full of love to give. And no matter how much love she heaped onto her uncle, she still needed a family of her own. 

_________________________________________________________

It was a late autumn evening, and the family was having a rare dinner together in the manor’s great hall. Usually, Gabriel and his family ate together with Uriel and Sandalphon’s familes at the large, oaken table in the hall. They rarely thought to invite Aziraphale, and Michael preferred to eat in her rooms, though her children often wandered over to the hall to grab plates from the large platters of meat and tubers and vegetables that were served up at dinner time. Tonight though, everyone in the manor house, all 32 adults and children, including Aziraphale and Anathema were in the hall. It didn’t happen often, but sometimes, everyone was feeling somewhat social, or perhaps isolated in their rooms and came together for a massive feast a few times a year and on holidays. 

All of the manor’s many servants were buzzing back and forth from the kitchens to the dining hall, bringing platters of food and pitchers of wine for the hoards of children and adults sitting around the large table. Most were in a good mood. Even Gabriel smiled a little at his children’s antics, and Michael almost looked as if she enjoyed the roast pig. 

It was towards the end of the evening, when everyone was winding down, sipping their cups of ale and wine and getting a little sleepy, when a messenger had burst into the hall and had run breathlessly up to whisper into Gabriel’s ear. Those nearby could see the king of Tadfield’s face change from confusion to intrigue, to a sudden grim determination. The messenger, tired from what was apparently a long journey, was offered food and drink in the servant’s quarters and was led off in that direction by a scullery maid. Gabriel then stood to address the household.

“Family!” he intoned regally, hitting the side of his goblet with a fork to get everyone’s attention. “I have news from the coast!” When he was relatively sure all 31 pairs of eyes were trained on him, he continued. “A messenger was just sent from the docks of the sea town of Narnus to the east to inform me that one of our father’s vessels was found, washed up on their shores.”

A gasp of disbelief rippled through the adults and older children in attendance, and Aziraphale’s hand flew to his mouth in surprise. Their father had lost three of his four ships, along with a good deal of gold, spices and bolts of expensive cloth during that fateful storm several years prior. Many of the crewmen, though sadly not all of them had made it ashore safe and sound, but they’d reported the ships sinking beneath the waves. Apparently, a second ship had survived. 

“According to the messenger, the ship is largely intact, if suffering from quite a bit of weather damage, and the cargo is largely whole and unharmed. It is a miracle from god!” Gabriel lifted his goblet in a general toast to their good fortune, and Uriel and Sandalphon and their wives followed suit, with much joyful murmuring and a smattering of applause. “All that yet needs to be done is for me to travel to Narnus to prove ownership of the vessel, and supervise the packing and shipping of the contents back home to us here in manor Fell,” Gabriel stated proudly. 

“Do you need us to go with you brother?” Offered Uriel.

“No, thank you Uriel. It’s not a large job, and your daughter is with child. Same with Sandalphone’s wife. You should stay here and manage the manor and township until my return, which will be only a few weeks from now.”

He sat down again, seeming very pleased with himself, and was immediately beset upon by many questions from his brothers and their wives. Aziraphale, seated at the other end of the table, turned curious eyes in Anathema’s direction. “Will you look at that? Yet more riches for manor Fell,” he said, eyebrows raising to his hairline. 

“Well perhaps they’ll use the extra wealth to improve the aqueduct system that brings water up from the river to do the washing,” she responded. Most young women would hope for new dresses or jewels from their added good fortune, but Anathema thought mostly of practical things. When she wasn’t studying witchcraft, scrying and fortune-telling on the sly that was. 

“It matters not to me,” Aziraphale replied. “I never did understand Gabriel’s constant quest to obtain more money and power and land. We had plenty as it was when you were a wee thing, and now… well, now, he’s become an unstoppable force.”

Anathema sighed. “True. Quite true uncle. Perhaps one day he’ll be satisfied and can stop the battling and the conquering and simply settle down.”

“Doubtful,” Aziraphale plucked a grape from a plate on the table and popped it into his mouth, chewing happily. He loved food almost as much as he loved books, as was evidenced by his soft middle that had grown softer as he’d aged. “He’ll die before he slows down.”

“Care to help me practice my Latin this evening uncle?” Anathema asked hopefully.

“My dear, don’t you have some friends your own age to spend time with?” Aziraphale chided her gently. 

“Why would I do that? They’re not nearly as interesting as you are uncle Zira. All they want to do is drink in the local taverns and play croquet and lounge around gossiping about what fashions are like in other towns. It’s frightfully dull.” 

“Yes, it does sound dull doesn’t it?” Aziraphale was forced to agree. “Still, I worry about you not getting out and living a bit more. I’m afraid I’m holding you back from enjoying your youth my dear.” He hated to bring up this subject, for he loved her companionship and her help in his daily studies and teaching, but he also couldn’t bear to think that he’d limited her by monopolizing her time. 

“Don’t worry so uncle,” she said, placing a hand on his where it rested on the table. “When I find some people my own age worth spending time with, I shall heartlessly abandon you to run off with them and drink ale and dance the night away. But, until then… would you please help me practice my Latin?”

Aziraphale smiled indulgently at her and placed his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. “Yes my dear, of course.” He could deny her nothing, for out of all of the children he loved and cared for, she alone felt like his own daughter. And, from the distant attitude of her mother, and the busy work schedule of her father, he could tell she felt the same way he did. 

______________________________________________________

  
  


Gabriel was meant to be gone for two or three weeks, but after a month had gone by, the people of the manor had begun to worry. Gabriel’s wife was distraught, and needed nightly droughts of sleeping tinctures to help calm her. Not only had Gabriel been gone too long, he had not sent word in the form of a messenger or a letter as to his situation. This wasn’t necessarily unusual, as Gabriel wasn’t known for clear or conscientious communication at the best of times, but his lateness  _ was _ very unusual. You could set a clock by Gabriel’s punctuality, and he was relentlessly efficient when it came to the acquisition and organization of wealth. And so his continued absence was unsettling to his family. 

It was late in the evening on the thirty-fifth day since Gabriel’s departure when the lookout at the southern gate of the village spied a man on a horse approaching. The gates were slowly opened to admit a bedraggled looking Gabriel, swaying with exhaustion atop his equally tired looking steed. His clothes were dirty and scuffed, his face looked haggard and older than his years. As his horse walked slowly into the manor courtyard, stable hands and grooms rushed in to help him dismount and to lead his horse off to be brushed and fed and watered. Gabriel’s knees buckled slightly as his feet hit the ground, and he needed to be held up by a hand on a groomsman’s shoulder as he limped his way towards the great hall. 

Gabriel refused to go to his rooms, instead preferring to be seen to by the court physician in the great hall, so that he could greet his wife and family and recount what had befallen him on his journey. Everyone in the manor crowded into the hall to receive him and hear his tale. His wife, Mina ran to him, covering his face with kisses and weeping about how worried she’d been, and he returned her kisses as best he could, while the physical hovered over him, dabbing at one of the cuts on his face. He was bruised and bleeding from a few small wounds and what looked like multiple scratch marks. His clothing, once posh and well tailored, was now ripped and smudged in several places, darkened by blood from still more small wounds in others. He looked a fright. 

Aziraphale and Anathema hung back at the edges of the crowd of concerned family members, knowing they wouldn’t be missed greatly in the press of women and children vying for his brother’s attention.

Once the physician had helped Gabriel remove his outer garments and wrapped him in a thick robe and once he’d dabbed at Gabriel’s most pressing wounds with an astringent disinfectant, Gabriel waved the man away impatiently. “I’ll surrender to your ministrations further at a later time doctor,” he said stiffly. “I need to speak with my family now.” The physician withdrew obediently, if a bit sullenly, and Gabriel took a bolstering sip of mulled wine before he spoke.

“My dear wife. My children. Beloved family members, come close and listen to my tale, for it is a dark and worrisome one.” His children and grandchildren hurried to obey, gathering to sit on nearby chairs and stools, or simply sitting at his feet. The other brothers and their families gathered closer as well, until the whole manor was surrounding Gabriel as a rapt audience. Aziraphale and Anathema took seats further down the table and waited patiently for Gabriel to speak. The man loved to orate, but also, this seemed a serious matter, more than just his usual bluster. 

“The ship in Narnus was indeed intact, and the riches in her hull were carefully packed up and sent back here. The crates and boxes shall arrive within a few days time,” he began. “It took longer than expected because several of the inner hold doors had rusted shut and a welder needed to be brought in to pry them open. But that is not the main reason for my tardiness in returning home.” Gabriel paused here for suspense, and everyone near him leaned in dutifully in anticipation of what he was to say next. 

“I headed for home a week ago. As you know, the journey from here to the seashore takes three days, but on the second day of travel, a great snow storm blew up out of nowhere.” This was quite surprising, as it was early in the season for snow, barely the middle of November, and the village had not seen a single flake. “It was a wild storm, with freezing cold winds, sleet and hail the likes of which I haven’t seen since I was a lad.” Gabriel shivered a bit and pulled his robe more tightly about his shoulders, chilled by the memory of the storm. “Still, I knew I’d be too late if I found shelter for the night, and so I soldiered bravely onward.” Aziraphale could practically  _ feel _ Anathema roll her eyes from her seat next to him. 

“The storm however only grew worse. Soon, I could not see but a few inches beyond my horse's nose. All was white and frigid. And then….” he paused again for dramatic effect, “... then, I heard the baying of the wolves.” A few of his grandchildren gasped in fear and clutched at each other in response to his words and his wife’s grip on his arm tightened as her brow furrowed in obvious worry. “I did not as you can imagine wish to become a meal for the wolves, so I desperately sought shelter, riding through thick underbrush that scratched my clothes and tore at my face. I needed an inn, a hut, somewhere where I could hide from the vicious beasts that were likely closing in on me minute by minute.” Aziraphale had to hand it to his brother. The man had a talent for storytelling. He disliked Gabriel pretty thoroughly, and yet even he could feel himself tensing with concern for his brother’s safety as the dramatic tale unfolded. 

“And then, like a miracle from god, I looked up and could see the dark shapes of castle turrets reaching up into the snow whipped skies.” More gasps of surprise and sighs of relief echoed from his audience. “A castle had appeared, as if out of nowhere before me, its gates open, its portcullis raised and doors ajar. I made for it straightway, for the baying of the wolves had gotten louder, and I feared that if I did not hurry, they would have my hide.” He paused here to take another swig of wine and those gathered around him waited patiently for him to continue. 

“Soon, I was able to ride my horse through the gates and into the castle’s main hall. The doors closed behind me, though no human hand was there to close them, and they locked on their own. At that point, I was too cold and tired to care. A row of glowing torches led me from the courtyard of the castle towards the stables, where I was able to see to my horse, and then, when he was fed and watered and brushed down, still more torches lit the way to a great hall. There was a large, merry fire burning away in the hearth, and before the fireplace was a great table, set with all manner of delicious food and drink.” Gabriel took a moment to look down into the round eyes of his children and grandchildren, now completely absorbed in his tale and grinned a small grin. He did so love being the center of attention.

“Well, as there was no lord or master of the castle present, and it seemed quite obvious that this feast was meant for me, I sat at the table and ate my fill. After I had eaten, I went in search of the castle’s lord. There must be a king or prince or lord of some kind that lived there, and clearly servants who would have prepared and laid out such a sumptuous feast. But, though I walked through endless rooms and down endless hallways, festooned with fanciful furniture and rich tapestries, I could find no other living soul. Eventually, I grew quite sleepy from the excitement of the day, and rounding another corner, I saw a bedroom, the door open, a fire burning in the hearth, a comfortable bed temptingly prepared. And so I lay down and fell into a deep sleep.”

“The next morning, when I rose, the storm had abated and the sun was shining through the windows of the bedroom where I’d slept. I made my way back to the great hall, and again, the table was laid out with another feast. This one a hearty breakfast of ham and eggs and porridge and pastries, with large silver pots of piping hot tea. I ate my fill, and then went to find my horse. I still had yet to find my gracious host, and so I mounted up and prepared to leave. The pathway that had led to the courtyard and out through the front doors of the castle was now lined with the largest and most beautiful rose bushes I had ever seen. Massive blooms of roses bedecked the bushes in every color imaginable. Yellow roses, white roses, pink roses, deep red roses, even purple and black and blue roses, the likes of which I’d never seen before.” His eyes grew wide and his expression full of wonder at the memory, and the children leaned in further, clearly enraptured by his tale. 

“I hated to be rude to my invisible host, but I do remember Mina wishing that she had some roses to brighten up our rooms, and so I decided to take a few with me.” 

Beside him, Aziraphale heard Anathema let out a low moan of regret. Everyone knew that Gabriel wasn’t good at self restraint when it came to things he wanted. 

“I gathered up armfuls of roses, using a dagger to cut them from the bushes, intending to put them in my saddle bags for the trip home.” 

Aziraphale joined his niece in making a sound of dismay. How selfish and disrespectful an act to commit against one who had so selflessly fed and sheltered him. He cringed inwardly at his brother’s greed and lack of manners. 

“Apparently,” continued Gabriel, “this was not a good thing to do, because I heard a mighty hissing sound emit from the bushes near me and all of a sudden…” here, another pause… “a massive black snake slithered out and reared up over me, baring its dripping fangs, its yellow eyes glinting with evil mischief!” A few of the children shrieked and hid their faces, and his wife Mina gasped out loud, her hand coming up to cover her mouth in shock. 

“I stumbled back, reaching for my sword, but before I could cut the head off of the giant beast, it spoke!” 

“It spoke?” his wife interjected, clearly doubtful of her husband’s story, though why this was the detail she was stuck on was beyond Aziraphale. 

“Yes!"replied Gabriel. "It spoke! With the voice of a man, only whispery like a winter wind. It spoke, and it said ‘How dare you accept my hospitality, only to try and rob me of my precious roses?’ Well, I was surprised to say the least, but I explained to the monstrous snake that I only wanted to bring a few blooms back for my lovely wife, as a gift. The creature did not seem happy with my response, for it spoke again, in that eerie voice, and it said, ‘You may take the roses if you please, but for your insolence and disrespect, you will owe me a great sacrifice.’” 

More gasps of surprise echoed from his audience as Gabriel, looking pleased with himself, paused for another gulp of wine. Aziraphale had a sinking feeling in his gut. If this tail his brother told was true, it was very like Gabriel to be dismissive of magical things. He was likely to ignore any warning the serpent gave him, with little care for the consequences. Despite the fact that some of the ancient magics still moved in subtle ways among their lands, Gabriel was fond of calling it “nothing more than parlor tricks” or “weak and ineffectual.” He was a believer in logic and science. So was Aziraphale for that matter, but one had to admit, logically, that magic, though weak and ancient, was still a force to reckon with in the land. 

“The snake reared up with its giant head and glared at me with its piercing yellow eyes, and it said ‘because of your vanity and your disrespect to my gardens, you will need to send me a companion from among your family line. I desire someone to talk with, to keep me company in my solitary and lonely life. Bring me a companion so that I may not feel so lonely. If you fail to fulfill my request, then all of your crops shall die and no seeds shall grow in the soil of any of your lands for a hundred years.’ Well, I was surprised, let me tell you. I thought for sure the beast would slay me where I stood, or ask me for gold or riches, but no, it only wanted a friend to keep it company.” He paused again, pulling his robe tighter about himself and seeming deep in thought for a moment. 

“At first,” he continued, I thought it desired a young lady, as monsters of old have been wont to do. In which case, I’d have suggested sending Anathema, what with her being unmarried and childless.” At his casual mention of sending his niece off to be companion to a mysterious and terrifying serpent, Anathema gasped in horror and clung to Aziraphale’s arm. He put his hand on hers and squeezed it reassuringly. “but... “ continued Gabriel, ignoring the fact that Michael was shooting daggers at him with her eyes, “when I suggested such a thing, the serpent refused, shaking its great head. It said that it specifically wanted a  _ male _ companion. That it had no use for a young lady and that he would much rather have a man for company. Can you imagine that?” Gabriel sounded amused. 

Aziraphale felt the blood slowly drain from his face and his heart pounding inside his chest. He somehow knew what was coming next. “I’ve no earthly idea why a beast would want to spend time talking to a dull man, rather than a lovely young woman, but since it was quite insistant with it’s command, I nodded, telling it that such a thing could be arranged.”

“I got to wondering,” Gabriel went on, a tone of false confusion to his voice, as if he were searching his mind for possibilities, when Aziraphale knew quite well that Gabriel had long ago made his choice. “I got to wondering,” he repeated, “who in the family is male, unmarried and unlikely to be, with no wife or children to abandon.” 

Aziraphale decided he’d had enough of Gabriel’s disgraceful display of false ignorance. He pushed his chair back and stood up, ignoring Anathema’s frantic attempts to grab his sleeve and pull him back down. “Enough Gabriel. It is clear from your description that you mean me. It is fine. If it will save our lands from the death of all our crops, I shall volunteer to go.”

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel beamed as he turned his eyes to his elder brother. “I hadn’t thought of you to be honest, but now that you mention it, it wouldn’t be fair to send any of the younger lads. Those who will likely _marry_ and have _children_ to add to our strength as a family. How selfless of you, as an _old,_ _childless_ man with no future prospects to volunteer to save our livelihoods.” Ignoring the shocked looks of his sibling’s wives, and the older children who not only adored their uncle Zira, but who’d absorbed enough about adult social graces to realize how rude their ruler was being, he maintained his fake grin. 

“But, my lord,” Mina spoke up at last, “Aziraphale plays a very important role in our household. He teaches and cares for the children, who will do that if he leaves?”

Aziraphale noted with anguish that a few of the smaller children were crying and one of his littlest wards, little Thomas wandered over and crawled into his lap, seeking comfort. 

“We don’t want uncle Zira to go!” wailed Petunia, another of the smaller children who’d grown particularly attached to Aziraphale. “Don’t make him go papa!” she pleaded, tugging on her father’s sleeve. 

“Yes Gabriel,” Mina said, “there must be someone else?”

“Look,” Gabriel said with a belabored sigh. “I happen to think this serpent beast is bluffing. He is probably some old throwback from one of the ancient magical families that blighted the land some hundred or so years ago. It’s doubtful that he has any power left, least of all power enough to kill all of our crops.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss him, Gabriel.” Aziraphale hated to disagree with his brother, for to agree with him meant he could stay here in his happy life and not have to go off as tribute to some terrifying beast. But he could not ignore the warning in the creature’s words, nor could he forget the old books on magical history he’d read in Madam Tracy’s hut as a small boy. Those old books had been quite clear on the potency and virulence of the ancient magic that used to rule this land, and of the fates of those who ignored it or underestimated it. “Old magic is no less potent for being old,” he warned. “The creature has a mysterious castle that no one has heard of or stumbled over before. He has a hoard of invisible servants and the ability to speak like a man, despite the fact that he is a beast. I have no doubt that he’s serious.”

“Fine, then if you’re so certain, you won’t mind going to him as this requested companion then?” 

Gabriel was testing Aziraphale’s resolve, and Aziraphale could clearly see his brother’s angle. He himself didn’t quite believe that the evil snake had any power to harm his kingdom. Gabriel was arrogant and felt himself to be immortal. He’d proven as much by recklessly endangering himself many times on the battlefield and on hunts for wild boar. But… even though he likely didn’t believe the serpent could harm them, he saw an opportunity to hedge his bets and to get rid of Aziraphale in the process. He’d always resented how much the people loved his older brother, how all the children flocked to him. He’d always been unsettled by Aziraphale’s sexlessness (or perceived sexlessness), and his bachelorhood. To Gabriel, Aziraphale was a daily irritation. With him gone, Gabriel could feel like he was well and truly the only shining star on his family tree. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale responded, though his heart caught in his throat and his palms had grown sweaty with fear. “I said as much already. I am prepared to go if that is what will keep our kingdom from possible ruin." 

He saw Gabriel’s face darken as his bid to punish Aziraphale actually afforded his saintly older brother the opportunity to look like a selfless martyr in front of the entire household. Gabriel was a man of such base urges and simple desires. His moods were easy to read, his inner thoughts not difficult to parse out. 

“Fine then,” he spat out, trying to hide his anger and failing. “You should leave at first light.”

“Sire!” Anathema had leapt to her feet and was glaring at her uncle Gabriel with flinty eyes. “You can’t be serious! How are we to let uncle Zira go into the den of this evil creature with nary a care? He’s never done anything to deserve such a fate.”

“Look here missy,” Gabriel snarled at Anathema, his tone betraying what he thought of upstart children. “ _ Uncle Zira _ hasn’t complied with god’s wishes and started a family of his own. He’s been distant and strange and obstinate his entire life. He may have helped out with raising the children, but he’ll never have his own, and eventually, not all that long from now, he’ll need to be cared for in his old age. He’s a  _ burden _ on our kingdom. And if you don’t find a husband and settle down, pretty soon, you’ll be a burden too.”

Anathema’s face had gone red as Gabriel’s nasty little speech had continued, now she was apoplectic. “How  _ dare you _ !” she yelled. “How dare you talk about him that way! Just who do you think you are?”

“I am your king!!” Gabriel bellowed, leaping to his feet, his eyes burning coals of anger, his fists clenched like hammers at his sides. “I am your king, and what I command is law! And right now, what I am commanding is that your precious uncle Zira do his duty and protect our kingdom from an outside threat. You have no say in the way this kingdom is run, and if you don’t sit down and shut up this instant, I shall send you with him!”

“Fine! I’d rather go with him than live here under your roof any longer!” she yelled back, before whirling and fleeing the room. 

Aziraphale, though distraught, was impressed at her courage. “If you’ll excuse me, I will see to her,” he said and left without waiting for permission to depart the table. 

“You should let her go brother. She’s a spoiled, upstart child,” Gabriel called after him, but Aziraphale ignored his sibling. 

He found Anathema where he’d thought she’d be, flung across her bed in her rooms down the hall from his own, sobbing into her pillow. He sat down on the bed next to her and gently stroked her hair.

“There there now my dear. It will be alright.”   
  


“How? How will it be alright uncle Zira? How can anything be alright ever again if you’re gone?” Her voice was muffled by the pillow and thick with tears. 

“I shan’t be gone forever, dearheart,” he said. Not knowing if he were lying or not, but wanting to take away some of her pain and fear. “This beast cannot be so unreasonable that he’d keep me for the rest of my days. He was kind, even to Gabriel, feeding him and sheltering him for the night. He only became angry when my brother did what he does best, and made a selfish decision to steal the creature’s prized roses.” He continued to pet her hair, smoothing her long chestnut locks under his book calloused hand. “He will eventually see reason I’m sure, and let me back for a visit. Why, this mystery castle is only a day’s ride away to hear Gabriel tell it. Surely he will relent and let me return some day.”

“And what if he doesn’t?” Anathema asked with a miserable sounding sniff. “What if he kills you and eats you? What if this whole needing a companion thing was just a way to get his next meal?”

“Well then, he shall be in for a treat, as I am quite fat and flavorful.” Aziraphale patted his soft, thick tummy and chuckled sardonically. 

Anathema lifted her face from the pillow to glare at him with reddened eyes. “Do not joke so uncle. It’s not funny.”

“I know my dear, I know,” Aziraphale relented, schooling his face in a more somber expression. “But in all seriousness, if he’d wanted to devour a man, then why did he not eat your uncle Gabriel?”

“I wish he had,” mumbled Anathema into her now damp pillow. 

Aziraphale suppressed a smile. “Come now dearest. You know I’m right. He would have swallowed Gabriel whole at his first opportunity if devouring humans was what he truly desired. Instead, he gave him the use of his stables, fed him with a great feast and let him sleep in a soft bed before letting him on his way with nary a word, without showing his face. It wasn’t until Gabriel decided to… well… be himself, that the beast even appeared before him. I am far more agreeable than Gabriel, and I will endeavor to charm this beast into letting me go.”

Anathema rolled onto her side to look at her uncle, her mouth curling into a cautious smile. “You are rather charming when you want to be,” she conceded. 

“That I am,” Aziraphale returned her smile, hoping to increase its size and duration by example. “I’ve read books on the subject. And are not snakes meant to be charmed? Like in the far eastern lands? With flutes?”

“Will you bring a flute with you then?” She asked playfully. 

“Perhaps I shall.” Aziraphale’s grin broadened with the knowledge that he’d pulled his niece's mood away from despair and closer to acceptance. 

“You don’t seem scared,” Anathema said, bringing a hand up to rest on his shoulder, her brow crimping in concern. 

“Oh my dear, I am very scared. I simply don’t see the point in wailing and pulling my hair out. I always thought that I was meant for something different than becoming a doddering old bachelor uncle in my later years. Perhaps ‘companion to a magical serpent’ is what god and the fates have in store for me.”

“You’re not doddering, nor are you old, uncle Zira. You’re barely fifty.”

“Barely fifty,” he repeated with a sigh. “I’m glad you don’t think I’m old my dear. I certainly don’t  _ feel  _ much different than when I was younger. Just a bit stiffer in the joints is all.” 

“And perhaps this snake is actually a handsome prince in disguise,” Anathema teased, squeezing his shoulder and winking conspiratorially. She was the only person other than Madam Tracy that Aziraphale had ever told of his feelings for men. He was sure some in his household had guessed. Possibly even Gabriel suspected, but no one would bring up the subject, as it was considered both rude and taboo to do so. As if not mentioning such perverse desires would make them disappear. Regardless, it felt good to have the two people closest to him know the truth of his heart’s desire, and to have them accept him for what he was? Priceless. 

“Perhaps,” he said with a wink. “Now, I must pack my dear. As Gabriel said, I’ll need to leave at first light.”

“Let me go with you!” she begged, her eyes sparkling with new tears and her brow crinkling in concern, all traces of her jocular mood from seconds ago completely gone. “Please uncle Zira. Just to ride out with you. You can send me on my way whenever you wish and I’ll turn around and leave without a fight.”

“If your mother and father say it is alright,” he said. 

“You know they won’t mind,” she replied glumly. “They probably wish I’d leave and never come back for all they show that they care about me.”

“Come now dearest. I know they love you. They just… aren’t good at showing it.” Aziraphale patted her hand where it still rested on his shoulder and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. 

Later that night, Aziraphale puttered around his room as he packed his bags. He elected to take only two small cases, large enough for two changes of clothing, a few personal items and several books. Deciding which books to bring had been a maddening puzzle that kept him up far past when he’d normally have gone to bed. He thought it prudent to take a medical journal, in case of injury, but also a book of poetry he loved, and a favorite adventure novel for days when he might feel bored or need something distracting. And then there was his illuminated bible with the lovely gold inlay pages and beautiful pictures of the saints. So many of his favorite books to choose from. Narrowing it down to five or six to spend the rest of his life with was quite a challenge. 

The rest of his life. 

Was it true, he wondered, that he’d be imprisoned in this strange castle with a monstrous serpent for the rest of his days? He could live another thirty years if disease or injury did not extinguish his life’s flame before then. Thirty years spent in a castle with only a monster for company. He felt his breath shorten and his pulse race as fear’s icy fingers crept their way up the back of his neck at the thought of being trapped forever. 

He sat down heavily on his bed and struggled to bring his breathing and heart rate back to normal. Thoughts of being trapped behind the walls of a dark castle, stuck with no escape route, kept circling through his mind, and his breath came even faster, his pulse pounded even louder in his ears. He felt nausea rise inside him, and rushed to grab a wash bucket, just in time to vomit into it. He lost his dinner and probably half of his lunch in great, gut wrenching heaves, clinging to the edges of the bucket with white knuckled hands. 

After he was finally done gagging and spitting into the bucket, he stood, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth to clear away the bile and went to the basin of water in his room to wash his face. He drank a little water and sat back down on his bed, feeling strangely better for having retched. 

He must make the best of this situation, of this great unknown future looming before him. Yes, he would miss Anathema and Tracy and the children dearly. Never seeing them again was a thought so painful that he’d need to push it aside for the time being in order to have the strength to ride out in the morning. But beyond his anguish over missing his loved ones, he did have to admit that he truly belonged to no one. He was a beloved uncle and friend to many in the kingdom, but he’d never had a true companion of his own. A person with whom he could openly share all of his hopes and dreams and desires. A person he could love the way adults love one another. He’d never had a partner. He had no one in the castle that was tied to him in that way. No one to keep him here. He really was the only and best choice to be sent as special companion to a horrid beast. The best lamb to send off to slaughter. 

And it was a sacrifice he’d make happily, if it meant protecting those he loved from financial ruin and starvation. The manor and the kingdom relied heavily on their crops of wheat and vegetables and herbs. Great fields had sprung up on the outskirts of all the villages surrounding manor Fell, and the people lived off of bread made from the wheat, and vegetables for their dinner tables, as well as trading those crops to other lands for much needed fish and salt from the seaside kingdoms. If the serpent succeeded in his threat to kill their crops, many would starve to death, the kingdom and manor Fell would fall soon afterwards. Something that drastic would upend the fragile ecosystem of their world and pull them into chaos and destruction. He couldn’t allow for that to happen, and unlike his brother, he didn’t think that beast was bluffing. He was clearly a creature of some formidable power, and to ignore his threat was folly. 

Aziraphale sighed as he folded his two spare tunics and breeches and put them into his travel satchel. He finished packing within the hour, and then settled in to read for a while, before falling asleep in the early morning hours, slumped against his headboard with a book still clutched in his hands. He dreamt of being lost in a dark castle, wandering down hallway after hallway, blindly. The only sound in his dream was the eerie whisper of scales sliding against stone. 


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Aziraphale awoke with a crick in his neck and an uneasy feeling in his stomach. He was so nervous, that he couldn’t bring himself to eat any breakfast, even with Anathema, looking pale and concerned trying to push a pastry in his direction. They’d chosen to eat in his rooms, as they often did when they couldn’t bear the mad bustle of the great hall. It had been a somber meal, with Anathema barely eating and Aziraphale not eating at all, though he did choke down a cup of tea. His niece seemed to struggle to come up with things to say, and he was (for once) not feeling at all like talking. He could tell she was concerned by his lack of friendly chatter and his abstaining from food. Talking and eating were two things Aziraphale excelled at. He was almost always cheerful and kind, so he knew Anathema was unsettled by the pale, quiet man sitting across his small table from her. 

After a few more minutes of trying to start up a conversation being met with a few faint monosyllabic responses from her uncle, Anathema gave up with a sigh and rose from her chair. “I’ll just go and get ready to leave shall I?” She asked, her anxious eyes searching his face. 

“Yes my dear. I think that’s best,” he replied, unable to reassure her. He was glad her parents had consented to let her go with him on the journey, though he knew it must not have been an easy decision for them to make. They did love her dearly, even if they weren’t good at showing it. Her father, Androus, a dark skinned man from the southern lands, was warmer than Michael, his aloof wife, but he still was not one for great shows of affection. It was one of the main reasons that Anathema had been so drawn to her loving and demonstrative uncle. 

He watched her head off to her own rooms to fetch her cloak and some food for the journey with a sigh. Then he made sure he was presentable and headed down to the courtyard. It was barely seven o’clock in the morning, the early winter sun hadn’t yet crested the horizon and the manor house was still shrouded in shadow. 

He went first to the stables to see to his horse, Hazel. She was peacefully munching some oats he’d given her, and looking unconcerned in the way only a fat mare of advancing years could look. They were quite a pair, the two of them. She with her white and tan splotches that almost perfectly matched the colors of his tartan tunics and the white-blond of his unruly curls. His horse sibling. He’d raised her from when she was an upstart colt and she’d taken him on many a journey about the kingdom. She was a good horse, and he hated to take her somewhere alien and potentially dangerous, but at least he knew there were well stocked stables at the beast’s castle. She would not starve if she came with him. 

He brushed her down, taking some extra time to scratch behind her ears and pet her nose in the ways he knew she liked, even feeding her a crab apple to ensure she was in a good mood before saddling her up and leading her out into the courtyard. He was dressed warmly in his winter cloak and a fur lined cap, as well as leather boots and long johns under his breeches, but still, the cold wind made him shiver. Perhaps more from the uncertain nature of the journey ahead, then from actual, physical cold. 

Anathema joined him a few minutes later, leading her horse, Max, a large, dark stallion with a nasty disposition. He liked Aziraphale and Hazel though, even if he was too evil tempered to be approached by anyone else other than his mistress. Eventually, the rest of the household, Gabriel, Uriel, Sandalphon and their wives and children, along with a smattering of beloved servants trickled down into the courtyard to see them off. 

Gabriel approached Aziraphale and clasped him by the shoulders, giving him a false smile and making sure his voice was loud enough to be heard by all in attendance. “Brother! I thank you for the sacrifice you are about to make. It means more than you will ever know. You are a hero to our manor house and kingdom alike!”

“Thank you, Gabriel,” Aziraphale mumbled, just barely able to meet his brother’s violet gaze. He didn’t feel compelled to say anything else, and so Gabriel released him and stepped back. Several children ran forward to embrace Aziraphale around the waist and the legs. Thomas looked up into Aziraphale’s face with red, swollen eyes.

“Uncle Zira, don’t go,” he sobbed. Aziraphale felt as if his heart would rip in two as he gazed down into the anguished face of his tiny great nephew. 

“I must Thomas dear. But be brave for me while I’m gone, and look after your brothers and sisters for me will you?” He ruffled Thomas’s hair with his hand and gave his small shoulder a squeeze. 

“Y-yes uncle Zira. I will,” Thomas mumbled, backing away, his eyes trained to the ground, his shoulders slumped. 

Aziraphale gave out as many hugs and kisses and kind words to the crowds of children as he could before he had to tear himself away to mount his horse. Then he and Anathema turned their horses toward the manor gates and slowly rode out into the winter sunrise, which was just peeking over the horizon through the black stalks of leafless trees. 

Madam Tracy was waiting for him at the gate. She stepped up to Hazel’s side and reached up to take his hand. “I’ll miss you so my lad,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“And I you Madam,” he replied, feeling his throat close up with sudden grief. “I’ll think of you often and keep you in my thoughts and prayers,” he whispered gruffly.

“Here,” she said, pressing a small bundle into his hands. “Use this if ever you’re ever in dire need.” She gave no more indication of what she’d given him, instead, she pulled the hood of her cloak up about her face and turned away, as if unable to bear looking at him any longer, and walked off back toward her hut. 

Aziraphale took the small bundle, that contained something hard and round, and put it in the pocket of his waistcoat, thinking to investigate it later. He would indeed miss Tracy keenly. She’d become a surrogate mother to him, or a dear aunt in the decades they’d known each other. Sighing heavily, he nudged Hazel forward again and he and Anathema rode down through the village and out onto the road that led them out of town. 

Suddenly, Aziraphale realized that he had no idea of how to get to the serpent’s castle. He supposed if this snake king were as magical and all-knowing as his brother claimed him to be, he’d find a way to lead Aziraphale to where he needed to be. And if he did not? Well then, Aziraphale could hardly be blamed for not finding the place could he? 

His curiosity was soon satisfied, when after they’d ridden perhaps half a day, stopping briefly for a midday meal, a great fog came up and surrounded them both. It was not the right time of year for fog, and this fog was unlike any Aziraphale had ever seen before. Thick and white, it soon became impossible to see anything other than a foot or two of the dirt road beyond their horse’s noses. 

“What enchantment is this?” Anathema asked beside him. Turning, he could still see her clearly, but could see nothing beyond her, nor to his other side, nor, when he turned around in his saddle, could he see anything behind him. All was lost in white, swirling mists. 

“I’ve no clue, my dear. I suppose though, that we are headed in the right direction,” he replied. 

They rode onward through the fog, trusting that the thick white clouds were not obscuring a cliff’s edge or deep ravine. After perhaps an hour or so, a tree lined path, paved in gravel appeared out of the fog. They could hear their horse’s hooves crunching the rocks beneath them, and the trees, regimented in size and placement, loomed on either side of the path, like tall ghosts in the fog. Anathema looked over at him with trepidation, but did not speak.

Soon afterwards, a pair of tall, silver gates in a high hedge appeared out of the mist. Aziraphale pulled Hazel to a stop and Anathema followed suit. Max huffed irritably and stamped his hooves as if stopping were an inconvenience for him. 

“Here is where I fear you must leave me my dear,” Aziraphale said, knowing that she would be upset, but unwilling to endanger her by having her follow him through the gates. Who knew what the beast would do to anyone extraneous who entered his lands? He had asked for a single male companion and no one else to be sent to him. Aziraphale couldn’t bear it if Anathema came to harm because he did not turn her away when it was prudent to do so. 

“If I must, uncle,” she replied, voice strained with emotion. They dismounted and embraced. She began to cry and squeezed him tighter, and this had him crying too, until they were clinging to one another and sobbing. 

He pulled back and brushed her hair away from her tearstained face. “Have courage my dear. Be brave for me won’t you?” he said, sniffling back his own tears, trying to show her a smile that came out far too watery to be reassuring. “I am certain you will see me again.”

“Oh uncle! But what if I don’t? What if this is goodbye forever?” she wailed, gripping his upper arms with enough pressure to cause bruises. “You can’t leave me alone with my horrid relatives in that dull manor house! Alone to become a spinster aunt. I can’t bear it!”

“There there now my dearest niece. You will be just fine. You’ll meet a lovely man and have many children of your own, and you’ll become the smartest, most beloved woman in the kingdom. I just know it. Keep me in your memory, and know that if there is any possible way to return to you and the children, that I will do so.” He paused, brushing away her tears with his thumbs and gripping her face in his hands. “You are the daughter of my heart dear Anathema. I shall always love you.”

“And I you,” she sobbed, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks as he gently pulled her hands from his arms and backed away towards the tall silver gates. They swung open silently as he approached, without any noise of hinges or even a whoosh of displaced air. He looked up at them warily, then back one more time at Anathema’s red, tear stained face. 

“Go now dearest. I must know that you are safely on my way before I leave you,” he said. She complied, mounting Max and steering his head back the way they came. He watched her ride slowly away, until the mists swallowed her up completely, then he turned and looked back at the now-opened gates before him. He took a deep, centering breath, then taking Hazel’s reins in hand, he led his horse through the gates and into the beast’s lands. 


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing he noticed as he led Hazel past the gates and into the beast's realm, was that the coldness of winter dropped off significantly. The wind died down the instant he crossed the threshold, and the temperature rose by several degrees, so that he felt comfortable removing his hat and cloak. That at least was a blessing, he thought to himself as he led his horse down the gravel path that carved its way through the fog. Soon though, the fog seemed to burn away, revealing acres upon acres of beautifully manicured lawns and gardens, spreading out before him. Aziraphale stopped for a moment to admire them, feeling more secure in the fact that his jailer was at least a creature of good taste where horticulture was concerned. He could see the castle, what looked like two or three miles distant, looming on the horizon, and so he started out in that direction. 

He and Hazel walked for what felt like hours through endless pastures and lovely waterfalls, ornate gardens, and well manicured hedges. Winter appeared to have no hold over these lands, and it felt more like early autumn. The castle grew large and larger as they approached, until it loomed over them, blocking out the late afternoon sunlight, casting the grounds around it into deep shadow. It was a formidable structure. A great stone building of massive size, with tall spires and towers, reaching up into the pinkish-orange glow of the setting sun. The front gates of the castle were wide open, and from within, a cheery glow emanated. Aziraphale led Hazel across the short drawbridge and through the gates into the courtyard with a tremor of fear in his heart. 

There was no going back now. No reneging on his promise. No chance for escape. He was certain that the beast was watching him, from some unseen place, and if he were to turn tail and run now, he’d surely be stopped, or perhaps struck dead for the crime of trying to flee. He led Hazel towards what looked like the stables, and was pleased to see that his hunch had been correct. He opened a wide set of wooden doors in the courtyard wall and saw a spacious stable with several stalls, standing empty, full of fragrant hay. Hazel happily ambled into the closest stall and munched on great mouthfuls of hay while Aziraphale removed her saddle and bridle and brushed her thoroughly. A little more thoroughly than usual in fact. He told himself that she needed to be soothed from a strange ride through the mists to a new castle, but, the truth be told, Hazel seemed quite happy and contented. It was Aziraphale who needed soothing. 

After he’d brushed her until her coat was gleaming and made sure she had plenty of water and food for the night, he walked cautiously back out to the main courtyard. The main entrance to the castle itself was a huge double doorway with a massive stone archway over it. The large wooden doors swung open upon his approach. Again, soundlessly. Aziraphale noticed suddenly that no birds sang in the nearby trees and bushes. No insects buzzed among the hedges. The beast's lands were beautiful, but silent and lifeless. 

Aziraphale shivered as he looked up at the great stone archway over the castle’s main entrance. Carved into the stone, in incredible, almost lifelike detail was a large serpent, the coils of his long tail curling around the entranceway as if to guard it. The carving had been done by a true master, for the minute details of the snake's scales and its slitted eyes staring out from the stone seemed almost to move in their realism. Aziraphale felt another shiver run down his spine, and he drew up his courage and walked across the threshold and into the castle proper. 

The hall was indeed very large and impressive. Vaulted ceilings rose some thirty feet above Aziraphale’s head and it looked large enough to easily accommodate three times the population of manor Fell. Other than a few muted tapestries hung on the walls and torches burning every few meters in sconces at shoulder height, the only furniture in the great hall was a massive wooden table, lined with ornate wooden chairs. A fire blazed nearby in a giant hearth, crackling merrily and doing its part to drive away the still slightly chill air inside the hall. 

What really arrested Aziraphale’s attention however was what was  _ on _ the table. It was laid out with the largest and most sumptuous feast he had ever seen. Not even on holy feast days in manor Fell was there such a wealth of food and drink. There were roast chickens, a giant ham, glazed with honey and cloves, piles of whipped potatoes and platters heaped with buttered carrots and stewed cabbage. Meat pies were stacked like bricks on a bricklayers palate, kabobs of hunks of sizzling lamb were laid on a platter with slices of red and green peppers, next to fresh loves of bread and patties of creamy butter pressed into the shapes of stars and seashells. Speaking of seashells, there were also platters of fresh grilled fish and shrimp and octopus, cooked to what looked like perfection, layered in paper thin slices of lemon and garnished with parsley. 

Aziraphale was stunned, and for a long moment could only look at this kingly feast with his mouth hanging open in awe. But soon, his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since he’d shared a small hunk of bread and cheese with Anathema on the road, several hours prior, and he felt a sharp pang of hunger lance through him at the sight of all this amazing food. 

“Hello?” he called tentatively. He was in no rush to meet his ghastly host, but he’d also been raised to be a polite guest, and the thought of eating the beast’s food without being explicitly invited to do so irked him greatly. “Hello?!” he called again. “Is there anybody there? I see there’s quite a lovely feast here, and I would very much like to eat some of it, but I don’t wish to be rude.” 

He waited for a moment for someone, some _ thing _ to respond, but no one did. Still, he felt very rude simply digging in when he was not invited to do so. So he waited another couple of minutes. A sudden scraping sound made him jump in alarm, and he watched in shock and confusion as the large, ornate chair at the head of the table pulled itself out and angled itself toward him, as if moved by invisible hands. Outside of the castle gates, which could have moved in the breeze, Aziraphale had never seen an object move by itself, as if possessed. He took a step backwards, bringing his hands up to protect himself, from what, he wasn’t sure. But nothing happened. The chair stayed put. It did not get up on the table and do a little dance, nor did it burst into flames and fly into the air. It was just a chair after all. 

It took Aziraphale’s addled brain another minute or two to realize that he had just been cordially invited to dinner. There wasn’t a much clearer invitation than a chair pulled back and waiting for him. Apparently his host preferred to stay invisible. There were no signs of a giant serpent anywhere in the great hall, even in the shadowy corners where the firelight and torchlight struggled to reach. 

“Oh, I see!” he called into the darkness of the vaulted ceiling, hoping he could be heard by whomever or whatever might be around to listen. “Thank you!” Then he walked cautiously to the chair, scooted it closer to the table, and sat down. There was a thick, red velvet cushion on the seat of the chair, and it was quite comfy, and spacious enough to accommodate his somewhat well padded backside. There were plenty of dishes nearby for him to choose from, and so he helped himself to some stewed cabbage and potatoes and a few lovely looking slices of honeyed ham. He mused out loud to himself, “I wonder if there’s pepper somewhere among this profusion,” then yelped with surprise when a tall pepper mill floated towards him from the middle of the table to land by his elbow with a gentle thunk. 

“Oh my. Thank you,” he murmured, still not sure of what to do about things moving on their own. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, what with the gates and doorways opening for him with nary a hand on them since he’d arrived. Still, he never in his life thought he’d be seated at the head of this table, fit for an emperor, all by himself, waited upon by invisible servants in what was clearly an enchanted castle. 

The food smelled heavenly, and seemed to retain its heat, as if it had just been brought to the table seconds before he’d walked through the door, which he knew was not possible. Feasts of this size were not simply laid out like a picnic. It must have taken days to prepare and cook all of this food. He’d taken a savory, delightfully tender bite of ham, chewing and swallowing with a moan of pleasure before the thought occurred to him that his host might mean to poison him. 

His blood ran cold all of a sudden at the thought, but only a few seconds of rational contemplation dispelled that possibility. It would make no sense to spend all this effort to force him to come all the way out to the castle and then lay out this immense feast only to poison him with one bite of ham. Even the most beastly of hosts would not be that sadistic and perverse. 

He continued eating until he was pleasantly full. The food was the best he’d had in all his life. Every dish was prepared perfectly, with just the right amount of seasonings, the right combinations of salt and sweet and savory. The meat was so tender and juicy that it virtually melted in his mouth, the potatoes buttery and velvety smooth, the cabbage flavorful and just salty enough, with a slight crunch. While he’d eaten, another invisible hand had poured him some red wine in a goblet and deposited it gently near his hand. “Why thank you!” he’d exclaimed politely. “Don’t mind if I do.” 

By the end of his meal he was feeling warm and comfortable, much of his fear and anxiety had melted away under the pure pleasure of food and drink. Eventually though, he knew he must get up and go find his host. Or his host must find him. The thought made fear shoot through his stomach, almost souring the delectable feast he’d just finished. What could this serpent king possibly want with a plump bachelor uncle from a small kingdom? And why ask for a male companion? Everyone knew that enchanted monsters in fairy tales of old always wanted young princesses to force them into marriage. Or at the very least, to lock them in towers until they grew old. Fairy tales, the ones Aziraphale had read, certainly did involve a lot of horrible fates for beautiful young women. Well, perhaps he should be grateful that he was not beautiful, and not young, and not female. Perhaps the serpent only needed an adversary for games of chess, or someone who could help him turn the pages of the books he wanted to read (being that he had no hands of his own… being that he was a massive snake.) 

Aziraphale slowly rose from the table, dabbing at his mouth with a fine linen napkin and straightening his tartan tunic. He really did not want to leave the great hall, being that it was warm and safe, but he had to find out more about where he was to live. He had to explore. He was certainly not meant to sleep  _ here _ . There wasn’t even a sofa or a divan to sit on outside of the large table and ornate wooden chairs in the hall. He walked away from the table and approached a door at the opposite end of the hall. It was a small door, compared to the massive wooden ones at the entrance, and it was unassuming. He approached it with a bit of trepidation, not knowing what lay beyond it, but figured there was only one way to find out.

He reached out a hand that trembled only slightly, intending to grasp the latch and open the door, but before his hand could make contact with the wood, the door swung open on it’s own. “Quite spooky that,” he remarked to no one. “That’ll take some getting used to.” 

Beyond the open door was a long hallway, set about with torches and hung with more tapestries. Aziraphale walked down it. At the end, it opened into another room, this appearing to be a study, replete with comfortable armchairs and sofas and a few small bookshelves lined with books. He itched to investigate the books, but knew now was not the time. There were two more doors leading away from the study, and he ventured towards the door on the left, which, of course, opened as he approached. Beyond that door was another room, this one more ornately decorated than the last, with thick carpets and jade inlay furniture and golden candelabras, satin curtains in a deep, wine red color, drawn to keep out the night, over massive, floor to ceiling windows. 

It was all a bit much. Aziraphale wandered through several more rooms, each one sumptuously decorated with the finest furnishings he’d ever seen, before rounding a corner and stepping into a hall of portraits. Paintings of lords and ladies, wearing stiff brocade tunics and large, elaborate gowns lined the walls of the hall, and Aziraphale could clearly see a progression from the oldest portraits, which looked to be four hundred years old, if his extensive study of historical fashion and customs was reliable, all the way up to those that would be fairly recent, painted within the past seventy five to one hundred years. All of the people in the portraits were pale and many of them sported red hair in some shade or another, from strawberry blond to a deep, crimson auburn color. They were all quite beautiful, slender, fine boned and elegant looking like only true, old-blood nobility looked. Unlike Aziraphale’s new-money family of merchants, the individuals depicted in these paintings were clearly royalty. Kings and queens, princes and princesses. 

The final portrait in the group was clearly of a family. It depicted a man in ermine robes and a woman in a deep blue gown, the fashion of which was popular some hundred years or so ago. The husband sported the telltale red hair seen in many of the portraits, and his wife’s hair was honey blond. Next to them stood a young man, clearly their son, with high cheekbones and pale, almost golden eyes. His long red hair, flame colored and curling gently, was worn slung over one narrow shoulder in an intricate plait, and he wore a black suit that contrasted sharply with his pale skin and unusual eyes. 

Aziraphale gazed up at the man in the portrait with the rapt attention of one who was completely enchanted. He had never in his life seen a man this heartrendingly beautiful. His features, his arched brows and narrow nose and full, sensual mouth combined in a way to give him the face of an angel. Perhaps a fallen one though, thought Aziraphale as he noted the slightly cruel twist to the young man’s lips, the cold glint in his eyes. This was not a kind person, not a warm person, but oh how beautiful he was! The artist must have been a good one, for he’d captured this man’s soul, as surely as he’d captured his image. Aziraphale could tell that he was haughty, arrogant, cruel to the servants and probably disrespectful to his parents. And yes, there was something of a stiffness to the way they sat in the portrait, hands folded just so, necks held at just the perfect angle. Not a hair out of place. It felt like it was a sterile household where this man had been raised. 

Aziraphale knew what it was like to be raised by people who did not love him, to be ignored by those who did not understand him. To yearn for connection only to be pushed away again and again, until it was no longer worth it to try and reach out any longer. He felt a flush of sympathy for the cold eyed young man in the portrait. He’d responded to such treatment by doubling down on his innate kindness. This flame haired young man appeared to have gone the other way, responding with derision and anger. He was unsure how he knew these things about this long dead prince, but he was sure his instincts were correct. 

Dragging his gaze away from the beautiful face in the painting, he turned and saw that just down a short hallway was the door to a cozy bedchamber. He could just see the corner of a soft bed, and could hear the telltale splash of water into a basin. He momentarily forgot the man from the portrait and rushed down the hall to the door of the bedroom, hoping to catch a real, warm blooded person in the act of serving him. But alas, as he entered the room, a porcelain pitcher, held aloft by still more unseen hands, slowly lowered to the night stand next to a basin of steaming, floral scented water. 

He looked about the room and saw that the bed was indeed large and soft and made up with silken sheets and warm blankets. As he watched, the blankets folded down at the corner temptingly, just as the chair had pulled out to invite him to eat, so now was the bed inviting him to sleep. As his eyes roamed the rest of the room, they alit upon a large wardrobe, which instantly opened its doors to reveal a profusion of breeches and tunics in a variety of velvet and fine linen, along with fur lined cloaks that unfurled themselves as if putting on a fashion show for him. He chuckled to himself at the eagerness of the invisible servants to please him. It was endearing, this silent display of riches and amenities. As if they were workers in a fancy inn, trying to entice him to purchase a room for the night. 

“Why thank you,” he said, to the air. “This is all very lovely. Is this meant to be my room?” No answer was forthcoming, and so he stepped fully into the room in order to investigate further. It was a large space. Far larger than his rooms back home at manor Fell. The bed was massive, big enough to fit three people, and upon sitting on it and bouncing gently, he ascertained that it was soft and yielding. “At least I shall sleep well,” he said. It unnerved him to be followed around by invisible servants and so he was swiftly developing the habit of talking to himself to keep himself company, and also to express his gratitude for their help. He could not bring himself to simply use and take what was given him without thanking  _ someone _ . 

And what of his jailer? What of the beast? He had seen no sign of another living thing on the beast’s grounds. Only himself, Hazel and the invisible servants, who, come to think of it, could be the result of complex spells rather than actual entities with thoughts or feelings. It was late though, and he was tired after a long and emotional day. He’d walked through the seemingly endless halls of the castle for what felt like hours. His feet were sore, his heart was heavy and his eyes felt full of grit. He went and shut the door to his room, which swung inwards rather than out, feeling a stab of dismay that it did not have any lock upon it. He didn’t feel safe sleeping in what was essentially the lair of a giant serpent without a lock on the door, even if said lair was the most beautifully decorated castle he’d ever seen. He pulled a simple wooden chair over to the door and propped it underneath the latch. It probably wouldn’t protect him if anyone sincerely wanted to force their way into his room, but it helped his peace of mind a bit. 

Afterwards, he stripped down to his small clothes and washed up as best he could using the basin of steaming, fragrant water, splashing it up over his head and scrubbing his face, chest and under his arms before towelling off with the softest, whitest towel he’d ever held. It appeared, just when he’d needed it, slung over the back of the chair near the bureau where the basin of water rested. No doubt snuck there silently while he was splashing his face.

He turned and found a nightdress laid out. It was soft flannel, and surprisingly, made with a tartan pattern in just the same colors as his tunics from his bag, though he’d packed no nightclothes. Looking back, he was uncertain why he’d neglect such a common article of clothing, but perhaps he’d known that if the beast were sincere in his desire to keep Aziraphale as a lifelong companion, that he’d at least have had the decency to provide Aziraphale with nightclothes. He remembered also with a start, that he’d left his saddle bags in the stables with Hazel and would have to fetch them tomorrow.

He shrugged into the nightdress and then climbed onto the massive bed, under the silk sheets and warm, woolen blanket, sinking into the soft mattress with a happy sigh. Despite the anguish and uncertainty of the day, his body knew that he’d had a delicious meal and that he’d tired himself out, and that he was now lying in the most comfortable bed he’d ever had the privilege to lie in. His limbs grew heavy and his eyes drifted closed. Before long, he slid effortlessly into a deep sleep. 


	4. Chapter 4

The next day dawned bright and sunny. The yellow-gold of the morning sunshine crept through the crack in the heavy curtains of Aziraphale’s new bedroom and laid itself warmly across his face, causing his eyes to flutter open. He stretched, luxuriating in the heavenly softness of the mattress beneath him and the silky smoothness of the sheets caressing his skin. Eventually though, curiosity, and a delightful smell of food pulled him out of bed. He sat up, scrubbing his hand through his wild curls and looked around the bedroom. There was a small table and one chair set up in the center of the bedroom, and on that table was a covered plate and a cup of steaming tea. 

“Whoever you are,” he called out softly into the empty room, “you are swiftly earning my deepest affections.” as he slid out of bed and approached the table with his stomach rumbling at the smells emanating from beneath the covered dish. He lifted the cover to reveal eggs, beans, toast, ham, and a pile of buttered potatoes. “Oh dear god in heaven.” he moaned, before sitting down, placing a linen napkin on his lap and digging in. It was hands down, the best breakfast he’d ever eaten.  _ At least I’ll be well fed _ , he thought ruefully as he put another forkful of perfectly fluffy eggs into his mouth and washed it down with a delightful gulp of tea. If the beast actually desired to eat him, he’d have quite a fat morsel to feast on if Aziraphale kept eating this way. 

He finished every last bit of his breakfast, raising his teacup in a salute to his invisible servants as he did so. “Thank you again!” He called out. “That was utterly scrumptious!”

He rose then, intending to wash up and find his old clothes, and indeed, the wash basin had been refilled with more fragrant, steaming water. He washed up quickly and towelled off, but when he looked around for his old clothes, he couldn’t find them anywhere. Instead, a pair of jewel colored breeches in deep blue and a gorgeous velvet tunic in a dark navy color appeared, hanging in the air in front of him as if they had just been waiting for him to pay attention to them. 

“No, no my dears,” Aziraphale chided. “That just won’t do. I’m not a prince, and I prefer to dress simply.” The princely tunic and breeches still hung in the air in front of him, as if trying to make a point, but he crossed his arms over his chest and refused to take them. “What happened to my old clothes eh? My plain breeches and tartan tunic? Where did you put those?”

The posh clothing drooped in the air and reluctantly floated back into the overstuffed wardrobe, and his old clothes appeared, as if out of nowhere, to be gently laid on the bed with invisible hands. 

“There, that’s better. Thank you my dears.” Aziraphale was beyond grateful that the servants, whoever they were, had come to their senses and supplied him with his familiar clothes from home. He would feel silly wearing that get up. Clothing like that suited his brother, with his gallant deeds and broad shoulders, far better than stuffy old Aziraphale. He gratefully pulled on his old breeches and tunic, noting with a smile that they had apparently been laundered in the night, for they were fresh and clean, and no longer smelled of Hazel or of his stale sweat. 

Now that he was fed, washed and dressed, he decided to resume his exploration of the castle. He left his rooms and wandered down more hallways, through more rooms of exquisite furniture and beautiful paintings and velvet drapes. After a while, the profusion of wealth and beauty began to blur before his eyes. He had a sudden thought of dear Hazel, probably still munching on hay down in the stables, and decided he’d give her a visit. Perhaps ride her around the grounds? 

“Hello my dears!” he called out politely. “Would you perhaps know the way to the stables? I’ve gotten quite lost.” No response came, no indication that they’d heard him, but when he walked down the next hallway, the door at the end miraculously let him back to the great hall. He scratched his head in confusion, as he was sure he had been hopelessly lost and nowhere near the great hall, but apparently, the laws of science worked differently in the beast’s castle. The massive table was now empty, and Aziraphale absently wondered what had happened to all that extra food. 

He quickly exited the great hall, out through the grand entranceway and over to the stables. This time, the door to the stables swung open on its own to admit him, when last night, it had allowed him to open it manually. He wondered if this had been meant to keep him from panicking as it had been his first experience with the inner workings of the castle. The poor dears had wanted to ease him into the magic of the castle. Bless their hearts. 

He found Hazel exactly as he’d imagined she’d be. Still eating. It was something they had in common, this love of food. She raised her head and wickered when he entered her stall, her mouth still working on a bite of hay. He patted her warm side and leaned against her for a moment, taking reassurance from her soft fatness and her horsey smell. She was now his only friend on this fantastic and strange adventure. The only familiar thing from home that still accompanied him. 

“Come on girl,” he urged her, getting her saddle off of the post where he’d slung it the night before, noting that it had been polished to within an inch of its life. “Let's go for a ride shall we?” She whinnied softly in response, seeming to agree with his request. He put her saddle on and carefully tightened the girth, looping her bridle over her ears. Once she was all tacked up, he led her out into the courtyard and mounted. They rode out of the castle's main gates and into the beautiful lands surrounding it. Aziraphale had no particular direction in mind, and he doubted the magic of the castle would allow him to simply ride off the beast's lands and back home, so he let Hazel wander along the many gravel pathways that carved through the lovely gardens and fields that spread before them without thinking too much about where they were going. 

They spent a delightful morning trotting and cantering about in fields full of tall grasses and along the tops of hills that allowed a spectacular view of the castle and the acres of land spread out beneath them. The sun was warm, and the breeze was cool, and it indeed felt like early autumn instead of what was actually late November. Aziraphale admitted to himself that this was, so far, the most pleasant and enjoyable incarceration he could have imagined for himself. 

But still, he had yet to meet the beast. And that fact nagged at the back of his mind. There was still a possibility that the great serpent only meant to lull him into a false sense of security before torturing him, or forcing him into slave labor, or (and this made Aziraphale gulp in fear) devour him. Snakes were not known for their predictability, and if this beast was indeed a giant reptile, as his brother Gabriel claimed him to be, there was no telling what motive hid inside that cold, predator’s brain. 

The sun was high in the sky, and Aziraphale’s stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten several hours, and so he turned Hazel back toward the castle. He unsaddled her and brushed her, letting her go back to her eager perusal of the oats and hay that had been refreshed while they were out riding, then he strode back to the great hall. 

As he’d suspected, there was yet another feast laid out on the large table. Cucumber sandwiches and cold, sliced chicken and tea cakes and piles of fruit and bowls of nuts. Enough for twenty lords and ladies to have tea. Speaking of tea, there were also several pots of it sitting among the profusion of food. Aziraphale sat down and had himself a hearty lunch, making sure to thank his invisible attendants for the food. 

It was barely the beginning of the afternoon, and so he decided to do some more exploring. He’d only walked down a few hallways, and walked through a few more lavishly appointed rooms (none of which looked familiar in any way), before he rounded another corner and felt his breath catch in his throat at what he saw before him. He had stumbled through a doorway into the largest library he’d ever seen. Books. Shelves of books stretched out in every direction and lined the towering walls up to the distant, vaulted ceilings of the massive room. 

“Dear sweet merciful god in heaven,” Aziraphale breathed as his hungry eyes crept over the profusion of volumes spread out before him. There must have been several thousand books in this library. More books than he’d ever dreamed of seeing in his life. More books than anyone could ever read in a lifetime of reading. He felt his knees buckle slightly and reached out a hand to support himself against a gilded banister at his side. He chided himself for getting so worked up over finding the library, but still, reading and the acquisition of knowledge were his greatest passions, and to think, he’d been relieved to see a few small shelves of books here and there among his travels through the castle, when all the time, this massive collection was right here for the reading! 

He had just walked down the small flight of steps onto the main floor of the library, looking up and around him at the shelves in awe, when a voice, the first voice he’d heard since arriving other than his own, rasped out behind him in a sibilant whisper. 

“I hope the library pleasssses you.” 

Aziraphale shrieked, jumped and whirled around. Behind him, at the entrance to the library, sitting in a coal-black glimmering coil of shining scales, sat the largest snake he had ever seen in his life, twice as large as the average man. It’s angular head and bright yellow eyes regarded him curiously and calmly, and its thin, forked tongue flickered out, as if to taste the air. 

Aziraphale felt the blood rush from his head and his vision grew white around the edges and he promptly lost consciousness. 

He awoke some indeterminate time later, his head pillowed by something soft, looking up at the vast, vaulted ceiling of the library.  _ A dream _ … perhaps it had been a dream. A horrible nightmare. He sat up, rubbing the back of his head where it appeared to have hit the ground when he’d fainted, looking behind him to see a red velvet cushion on the ground, that some kind soul had placed behind his head after he’d passed out. His eyes darted around the room, but the snake was nowhere to be seen. 

“I am sorry,” came a rasping, gently sibilant voice from everywhere and nowhere. “I did not mean to scare you.” Aziraphale whipped his head around, ignoring the pain that throbbed at the back of his skull, looking for signs of his horrific host, but he could see no one nearby. 

“Wh-where are you?” he asked, hating the tremulous, fearful tone of his voice. 

“I am nearby,” came the response. “I’ve changed my form to something more… palatable. Would it be alright if I came back out again?” The voice sounded smaller than before. 

“A-alright,” stammered Aziraphale, mentally preparing himself for the next horrific monster to appear. 

After a few heart pounding seconds, he saw a figure, tall and slender, draped in a black robe step out from behind a bank of bookshelves near the entrance to the library. The figure wore a hood that shrouded it’s face in shadows, but the cloak that draped it’s form definitely hid the body of a man, not of a giant serpent. The man-figure stepped further into the room, making sure to keep his head down and cloaked in shadow. He waved a gloved hand and the curtains in the room slid their way across the massive windows and half of the candles that were lit in sconces along the walls extinguished themselves, leaving Aziraphale and the strange man in dim half-light. 

“There,” a man’s voice, pleasant, but still a little rough, emanated from within the shadowy hood of the robe. “That’s better isn’t it?”

“Yes. I suppose it is,” Aziraphale agreed, though it felt rude to admit that he was relieved that the snake figure was gone. The robed man stood where he was, not moving towards Aziraphale, and yet Aziraphale took a few steps back, preferring to keep a good bit of distance between himself and his mysterious host. 

“I won’t harm you,” said the beast. “I don’t expect you to believe that now, but I hope you’ll come to believe it in time.” 

Aziraphale had no response to this particular statement, so he simply stood there, watching the robed figure with apprehension, unsure of what would happen next. 

“Do you like your rooms?” The beast asked. 

“Oh! Yes, yes very much,” Aziraphale’s social manners kicked in and he gratefully latched on to the familiar routine of thanking one’s host. “They’re quite lovely. And the food. Thank you. It’s the best I’ve ever eaten.”

“Good. I’m glad,” the beast replied, and Aziraphale thought he could detect a warm tone creeping into the strange man’s gently rasping voice. “Did you sleep well last night?”

“I did yes, thank you.” Aziraphale suddenly felt a bit weak in the knees. “Would you mind if I sat down?” he asked, indicating a plush armchair a few feet away. 

“Of course not,” replied his host, lifting a long arm in a sweeping motion that welcomed Aziraphale to sit. Aziraphale walked over to the armchair and sank gratefully into it. 

“Would you… would you care to join me?” he asked, heart pounding in his throat at the thought of the creature coming closer, but also hating to be a rude guest. He’d had these standards of etiquette drilled into him at a young age. If you sat, you offered your companion or host a seat as well, even if they were a horrid monster in the shape of a man. 

The beast’s head jerked back slightly, as if in surprise. He had clearly not been expecting to be invited to sit with Aziraphale. “I prefer to stay here if that’s alright, but I shall sit if you like.” he waved his hand again, and a chair slid silently across the floor to him and he sat in it with the smooth grace of a dancer. He was still several yards away from Aziraphale, and so he could breathe easier. The presence of this… man? Creature? Made Aziraphale nervous in a way that harkened back to the days when men and beasts were not separated by stone walls. Back when man had climbed trees at night to keep himself away from the claws and fangs of unknown predators who prowled the forest floor. There was a coiled strength and a sensual grace in the robed man’s movements that gave the impression of just such a predator, poised to strike, and it made Aziraphale’s palms sweaty and his heart race inside his chest. 

“I truly did not mean to scare you,” the beast said, letting his gloved hands rest on the arms of the chair. “I’ve spent so much time here alone, that I often forget which form I’ve taken. I forget what I look like.” 

Aziraphale felt a pang of pity at the thought of being alone for so long that one lost sight of one’s own appearance. A sudden realization dawned on him. “There are no mirrors here.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. He’d seen no mirrors in any of the beautiful rooms he’d passed. None even in his own bedroom. 

“You are correct. I cannot abide by them,” the beast said. “If you’d like one in your rooms, that can be arranged, but I do not allow them in the castle’s public areas.”

“Oh that would be good if it could be arranged,” replied Aziraphale carefully, not wanting to seem ungrateful. “I am quite plain to look at, but I do need to make sure I don’t have food stuck to my face or that my hair isn’t standing on end.” he chuckled nervously. 

“Very well,” the beast replied. “I shall have one brought to your rooms immediately.” He snapped his fingers, and Aziraphale could almost see a mirror materialize in his bedroom. “And for what it’s worth, it’s not true.”

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale asked, losing track of the direction of the conversation for a moment. “What’s not true?”

“You’re not plain,” replied the beast, his face still lost in shadows. 

“Oh…” Aziraphale was taken aback momentarily, and struggled to regain his equilibrium. “I assure you I am. Quite plain. But… thank you for disagreeing with me.” 

The beast remained silent. 

“This library…” Aziraphale began, desperate for a change of subject. “It’s the largest one I’ve ever seen. It must have taken a lifetime to collect this many books.”

“Several lifetimes in fact.” replied the beast, a strange, melancholy tone briefly coloring his rasping voice. 

“Oh.” said Aziraphale, unsure of how else to respond. “I love reading,” he said. “I developed a great passion for books as a young boy, and this… well this is sort of a dream come true.” he raised his hand and waved it vaguely to indicate the profusion of books that surrounded them. 

“Consider this your library then.” The beast replied. “I have no use for books any longer, and if you love them, then consider the library, the books, a welcoming gift.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t quite believe his ears. All of these books…  _ all of these books _ … his? The thought alone made him lightheaded as if he might faint again. “I...I.. I could never accept a gift of such magnitude,” he replied, his voice weak and tremulous. “It is too much, I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

“You’ve left your home and family and come here to be my companion. That is quite a grand gesture actually,” the beast replied. 

The words ‘ _ I had no choice _ ’ tried to push themselves out of Aziraphale’s mouth, but he swallowed them down and nodded stiffly, unable to respond in any way that would be appropriate to the situation. 

  
“I feel I’ve overwhelmed you,” the beast said softly, “I’ll take my leave of you now. If it’s alright, would I be able to join you for dinner this evening?”

Aziraphale, secretly breathing a sigh of relief, nodded again. It was the least he could do, accept the beast’s request to share a meal, after all the creature had done for him so far. He watched as the robed figure rose gracefully from his chair and walked towards the entrance to the library. In a breath, he was gone. 

The curtains pulled themselves back from the windows again and the extinguished candles relit themselves and the golden light of late afternoon streamed back into the library. Aziraphale found himself sinking gratefully into his chair, sweaty and panting with spent fear. He’d been subconsciously clenching every muscle in his body while in the beast’s presence, and he only realized this now, as he felt the tension bleed out of him and he collapsed against the back of the chair. 

Well, at least it was behind him now. He’d met his mysterious host, had seen the great serpent and lived. But what of the beast’s human form? He still knew nothing of the creature’s appearance beneath the robes. His mind came up with several gruesome possibilities. Perhaps he was covered in boils, or scars? Perhaps he had the body of a man and the head of a serpent? What horrors lay hidden under the black robes that shrouded the beast’s countenance? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

He took a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly through pursed lips, looking around him again at the treasure trove of books.  _ Might as well read a little while I’m here _ , he thought. 


	5. Chapter 5

He was pulled from his reading a few hours later by a deep, musical clanging sound and realized it was emanating from a tall grandfather clock which sat in one corner of the library. It was seven o’clock already! My how the time had flown by. It had been probably three or four o’clock in the afternoon when the beast had left him, and he’d lost himself in the reading of a fascinating book on the history of medicinal plants, and then in the pages of a romantic poetry book by an author he’d never heard of before, ‘Federico Garcia Lorca’ who’s poetry took his breath away. 

He remembered with a start that he’d agreed to meet the beast for dinner in the great hall, and so he carefully put the poetry book away and hurried in what he hoped was the right direction. As was the way of the castle, he turned down a hallway and the door at the end of it led back to the great hall. Apparently, the rooms and hallways of the castle arranged themselves to meet his needs, rather than by the laws of natural order. Everything seemed to move and shift… much like the scaled body of a serpent. 

The table was again laid out with another incredible feast, platters of sliced meats, bowls of steamed vegetables and fried potatoes, mincemeat pies and golden dinner rolls among carafes of wine in both red and white. It was humbling and somewhat embarrassing to have such a profusion of delicious foods all to himself, and he was strangely glad that the beast would be joining him, if only to keep him from feeling silly having all of these riches to himself. 

Speaking of the beast, he was nowhere in sight at the moment, and so Aziraphale sat himself at the head of the table, put the fine linen napkin provided to him in his lap and waited patiently. He did not have to wait long, for a minute or two later, the door he’d used to enter the hall swung open again and the robed figure of the beast swept in. He strode slowly over to the table and took a seat several yards away from Aziraphale, still keeping his distance. 

“You could come closer if you wanted to.” Aziraphale offered.

“You’re only saying that to be polite,” the beast responded levely. “You’re terrified of me.”

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open in shock, but he rallied quickly. “You make me nervous.” he admitted, “but I am not _terrified_. And besides, if we’re to get to know each other, it would help if I grew accustomed to your presence.”

The beast’s head tilted back in obvious surprise, but after a moment during which he seemed to struggle with an internal battle of some kind, he rose, pushing his chair back and resettled himself two seats away from Aziraphale. Still distant enough for Aziraphale to feel relatively comfortable, but not so far away that Aziraphale had to yell for the beast to hear him. 

He kept the hood of his robe carefully draped to hide his face, and so Aziraphale was still unable to see his host’s features. He was intensely curious as to the nature of his host’s looks, but there was a distinct possibility that seeing what the beast looked like would put him off his meal. 

He then set about making a plate for himself, selecting slices of roast beef in gravy and a small mountain of fried potatoes and a pile of buttered carrots, humming happily to himself at the prospect of eating this delicious food yet again. It took him several minutes before he realized that the beast was not joining him in filling a plate for himself. 

“You’re not eating?” he asked, strangely dismayed by the prospect of eating alone. 

“No. I don’t eat in front of others.” the beast replied, was that shame lacing his voice?

“Whyever not?” Asked Aziraphale, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be carefully polite, and immediately backpedalling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I spoke out of line,” he said, his cheeks heating in embarrassment at the forwardness of his words. 

“No, it is alright. It’s a perfectly good question to ask.” The beast paused for a moment, as if considering carefully the words he was going to use next. “I… well… lets just say that as a beast, the way I eat isn’t… pleasant to look upon.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale replied helplessly. He seemed to have dug himself into a delicate social faux pas without realizing it. “I am truly sorry for second guessing you. I shan’t do that again.”

The beast nodded, accepting his apology mutely.

Aziraphale knew he shouldn’t press his luck, but he heard the words tumbling out of his mouth anyway. “Do you drink wine?”

A rasping sound issued from the depths of the hood, and it took Aziraphale a few disorienting moments to recognize it as laughter. “That I do” replied the beast. 

“Well then, by all means, please join me in a glass of this excellent wine!” Exclaimed Aziraphale, beyond glad to not have made two missteps inside of five minutes. He picked up the carafe of wine and poured a healthy portion into the goblet nearest the beast, who picked it up in a gloved hand and raised it towards Aziraphale. 

“To my new guest,” he said. 

Aziraphale raised his own glass and carefully clinked it against that of the beast. “To my host,” he replied with a tight smile. Then they both drank. The beast’s wine glass disappeared into the shadows of his hood and he appeared to take a sip and put the wine back down. 

Suddenly, something occurred to Aziraphale. “I, I haven’t introduced myself properly,” he said, unable to believe he’d let so much time go by without telling the beast his name. “I’m Aziraphale Fell.”

“Yes,” the beast replied. “I know.”

“But how-”

“I have my ways,” came the response. 

“And your name? What am I to call you?” Asked Aziraphale, placing his wine glass on the table and looking at the robed figure patiently. 

“You may call me Crowley.” said the beast. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said, testing the feel of the strange name on his tongue. “Well then, Sir Crowley, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Not _‘sir’_ Crowley. Just Crowley is fine.” The beast said, sounding a touch impatient, and Aziraphale hoped his slip up wasn’t too insulting. 

“Alright then, Crowley.” It was strange to Aziraphale not to use his host’s surname or a prefix, but he supposed if that’s what Crowley wanted, that’s what he’d do. 

“May I call you Aziraphale?” Crowley asked

“You may,” replied Aziraphale, then he marshalled his courage for what he was about to say next. “Only…” he paused, unsure of how to continue exactly.

“What is it?” his host asked, sounding curious. “Say what you want to say.” 

“It’s just... well, it’s just that... I don’t know what you look like,” said Aziraphale haltingly, unsure if he would anger the beast, Crowley, by bringing up the sore subject of his looks. 

Crowley paused without speaking for a moment, seeming to consider this. “I am not pretty to look upon,” he said, his voice cautious.

“I think I should be allowed to be the judge of that,” replied Aziraphale, feeling his heart start to pound with the prospect of seeing what his mysterious companion looked like. “It can’t be all that bad, surely.”

“You’re a brave man,” replied Crowley, “If you wish to see my face, then I can’t deny you. But don’t blame me if you feel gripped with the urge to run screaming.”

“I’ve never run screaming from anything when there’s a plate of delicious food in front of me,” said Aziraphale, executing a nervous smile. 

“Very well.” said Crowley with a raspy sigh. Then he lifted gloved hands to the hood that shrouded his face prepared to lift it up and away from his head. Aziraphale held his breath in anticipation, praying that what lay underneath was not as horrific as his imagination made it out to be. 

Crowley lifted the hood up and away and let it drop to his shoulders, and Aziraphale could not suppress a surprised gasp at what he saw. 

It was a strange face indeed. But not, Aziraphale thought as his eyes wandered over the beast’s countenance, entirely gruesome or unpleasant. Crowley had mostly the face of a man, only the skin of his cheeks and brow and chin were covered with dark scales. Gleaming onyx snake scales spread across his forehead and over the bridge of his nose and crept in dark stripes down to his chin and down the length of his long neck, disappearing into the dark folds of his robe. His lips, full and quite lovely, were unscaled, but his eyes, his eyes were a bright, gleaming yellow color, shot through with black slits, just like those of the massive snake that was his other form. It was the face of a demon from Hell, of a nightmarish creature, but though Aziraphale felt a small twinge of revulsion at the sight, he also saw the humanity in Crowley’s features. He was clearly part man and part monster, and not the horrific visage Aziraphale had feared he’d be. 

Fiery red hair, looking very human, rippled down past his shoulders, and Aziraphale was reminded of the handsome young man from the painting in the portrait hall. 

“Your hair,” he said, a touch breathlessly, “It looks like the hair of those people in the portraits.”

“They are distant relatives,” Crowley conceded, lips parting when he spoke, to show a pair of rather long, sharp incisors. His yellow eyes looking down into his wine glass, as if afraid of seeing Aziraphale’s reaction to his face. 

“Ah. I can see the resemblance,” Aziraphale replied, “I’m not sure why you wear that hood, you look perfectly fine to me.” And he did, Aziraphale realized belatedly. Not terrifying at all.

That got Crowley’s attention, his yellow eyes snapped to Azirpahale’s face, and Aziraphale fought the urge to flinch back as those bright yellow orbs met his own eyes in a steely glare. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” Crowley said, but there was no anger in his tone, no accusation. Only a sad sort of resignation. “I am grotesque to look upon, there is no need for you to flatter me.”

“I’m not flattering you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, “I’m no beauty myself, and so perhaps we can stop putting so much emphasis on how we look and simply get to know one another?”

Crowley grinned. Or at least Aziraphale thought he did. It was hard to tell with the black scales that stretched across his features, but Aziraphale swore he saw the beast’s yellow serpent eyes crinkle at the edges in a way that might have indicated a sly grin. “Very well,” he said. “Let’s not talk about looks then.” 

He brought his gloved hands up to put the hood back into place, and Aziraphale reached out a hand, not intending to touch Crowley, only to forestall him. “No, please. Leave the hood down,” he said, and the yellow eyes widened in surprise at hearing his words. “I don’t see any point in hiding your face from me if I am to stay here,” he explained.

“Fine then,” Crowley relented, his voice holding a note of something Aziraphale could not place. “But,” he continued, “I do have a sensitivity to light, and so I hope you won’t mind if I wear these.” And from a fold of his robe, he brought out a pair of tinted glasses. They were round and dark and he placed them over his eyes. It did have the advantage of making him look a little more human, if harder to read emotionally. Aziraphale had never seen spectacles with dark glass before, but he supposed that if the beast possessed strong magics, this would be a small feat for him to accomplish.

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said, strangely put out over not seeing those unusual eyes any longer, though not sure why. “Whatever you wish, Crowley.”

After that, Aziraphale turned back to his food, chewing happily and making little moans of enjoyment that might have caused Crowley to grin a bit, which Aziraphale ascertained by shooting shy glances at him out of the corner of his eye while he ate. It seemed to please Crowley that Aziraphale enjoyed the food he’d had laid out for him. 

For his part, Aziraphale was relieved that he now knew what his host looked like. It had been weighing on his mind, and now the mystery was solved. Mostly anyway. Crowley still wore a voluminous dark robe and gloves on his hands, but Aziraphale doubted he was hiding anything more unsettling than what he’d already seen. And yes, Crowley’s face _was_ unsettling. He was an aberration, a mutant. He was clearly unpleasant to look at, but also… fascinating. In the way that animals were fascinating. Different from humans, but possessing of their own sort of beauty. Perhaps Crowley had his own beauty, and Aziraphale simply couldn’t see it yet? 

He finished his meal with a happy sigh and settled back in his chair with his wine clasped in both his hands, not sure if he should look directly at Crowley, for fear that he’d be thought to be staring, but also, not wanting to avoid looking at him either. 

“It’s alright if you want to look,” Crowley remarked, and Aziraphale flinched a little. Did the beast read minds? “I don’t blame you,” the snake-man continued. “I am quite… unusual to look at, and it’s fine if you want to stare.”

“That would be rude,” Aziraphale replied carefully. “And besides, I thought we were putting the subject of looks aside for the time being no?”

Crowley sighed. “You’re right,” he conceded. “Why don’t you tell me about your home, about manor Fell, your family.”

Aziraphale swallowed down a bitter lump in his throat, and did not respond in the way he at first felt compelled to, to accuse Crowley of keeping him here against his will. To demand to know if and when he’d be allowed to see his family again. Instead, he cleared his throat and began to speak of his homeland. Of the village of Tadfield, and of the manor house, which lead into descriptions of his childhood, and how he’d learned to read from Madam Tracy. Which in turn led to him talking about Tracy herself. Then Gabriel and his other siblings, and then the children. Before he knew it, he’d been talking for a straight hour. And through it all, Crowley sat, bespectacled, scaled face turned in his direction, still as a stone and listened with rapt attention. 

Aziraphale shook himself as if waking from a dream and stuttered to a stop. “Look at me, prattling on and on, I must be boring you to tears,” he said self consciously, smoothing his hands down the front of his tunic and tugging at its hem, as he was wont to do when he felt nervous.

“Nonsense,” Crowley replied. “You’re a fascinating storyteller.”

Aziraphale, unsure what to do with that compliment, decided he should turn the tables on his host. “And what about you? What about the place of your birth? Your family?”

Crowley stiffened and his hand around his wineglass tightened, his knuckles going white. “That will have to be a tale for another time,” he said tersely. “And it’s gotten late. I should let you retire.” With that, he rose and wrapped his cloak more tightly about himself. “Have a good evening Aziraphale,” he said stiffly, and then stalked away from the table, towards the door that led to the rest of the castle.

“Wait! I’m sorry! Did I say something wrong?” Aziraphale rose in his seat, accidentally knocking over his wine glass in the process, his hand reaching out toward Crowley’s receding back. He was unsure why he wanted the strange beast to stay longer. Perhaps he was lonely? And he hated the idea of having insulted his host. Even if he _were_ a prisoner here. 

Without turning back around, Crowley stopped and spoke. “No, you didn’t say anything wrong,” he said, in a voice that sounded strange, cold. “It is just a sore subject and one I don’t wish to end the evening with.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale said, unsure of what else to say or do. Invisible hands had already begun to clean up his spilled wine with a napkin, but he absently grabbed it back. “No my dear, I can do that. I’m not an invalid,” he tutted at the unseen helper as he used the napkin to wipe up the puddle of wine on the table. When he looked back up again, a few seconds later, Crowley was gone. 


	6. Chapter 6

Crowley shut the door to the great hall behind him and leaned against it, letting out a long breath and briefly closing his eyes behind his dark shades. 

So it was true, the old witch’s prophecy was coming true, just like she’d foreseen, some 90 years ago when she’d cursed Crowley to this torturous half life as a repulsive serpent. He had long ago memorized the words of the curse and each word of the prophecy she’d offered him as recompense for cursing him for nearly a century. And so, he knew that the words were now making more sense.

He’d been an upstart prince, only twenty two years old, hating his parents and his stuffy family traditions, he’d gone a little wild. Had tried to seduce every handsome young man who came to the court to meet with his parents or try to marry his younger sisters, which enraged and embarrassed his mother and father. He drank like a fish, got into fights at the local taverns and spent his parent’s money with great abandon. 

His uncle Hastur, yet another corrupt, pompous duke on his father’s side, had tried to reign him in, but to no avail. They all hated him, his mother, his father, his uncle Hastur and his aunt Dagon. His brother Ligur was twenty years his senior and already settled with a wife and child, but Crowley, who went by another name back then, one he couldn’t bear to think about any longer, was a mess. An irresponsible, reckless, lude, obnoxious mess. A stain on his family’s perfect record of being the most respectable, of having the strongest magics, of being the wealthiest and most powerful family in the land.

And why shouldn’t he have been reckless? They’d seen his wild energy and his creativity, and they’d reacted with scorn and derision. Stifling him from a young age with recriminations and slaps to the face. If he did not conform to what they thought of as a perfect prince, a perfect next step in the line of succession for their perfect, royal lineage, then he was worthless. And when they found out that he had no interest in women, their scorn only deepened. He wasn’t what they wanted him to be, and so they all made sure to remind him that he’d fallen short. That he was unwanted. And so he’d rebelled. 

His mother, with the help of many gold pieces, had enlisted the help of a witch to bring him under control, and to knock him permanently out of the family lineage, but without the shame or the black mark of actually killing him. Agnes Nutter, the town witch had cursed him to a long life as a serpent. But she’d also done something surprising. She’d pitied him, and so she’d included a caveat to the curse, had softened the blow. He would live as a serpent, but also, he could take the form of a man when needed, though his man-form would be horrible to look upon, there was just no getting around that. There were several servants still loyal to him, and upon the queen’s insistence, they were cursed as well, to a life of silent, invisible servitude.

After cursing Crowley, she’d told him a prophecy that she declared would come to pass almost a hundred years in the future. An angel would come to Crowley’s rescue. 

_ Ten times nine years shall pass, and an angel shall alite and take thee out of thy curse. True love’s kiss will save thee from crawling on thy belly. _

The meaning was both obscure and quite explicit. He would be relieved of his half-life as a snake when he was awarded true love’s kiss. Not before then. And he wasn’t to ask for help either. Not directly. That was made quite clear by Agne’s words.  _ “Do not speak of this to anyone, or you shall surely be doomed.” _

But what of this angel? He was not a religious man, and did not believe in angels or in demons, or in god for that matter. And why would an angel usher in true love’s kiss? He would never be able to fall in love with a woman, and men falling in love with men was strictly forbidden in the religion of his people, and so the prophecy didn’t make sense to him. 

In the beginning, his curse was a torturous hell to him. The family locked him away in a small set of rooms in a tower, telling everyone that he’d been struck with a rare illness that made him not only contagious, but horrid to look at. For thirty years he’d lived in those small rooms, with only his invisible servants, Katherine, Johnathan, Tristan, Isabel and Edward for company. They silently bustled about, making sure he was well fed and cared for, listening to him scream and rant, hiss and groan over the state of his imprisonment. They no longer quite had bodies and didn’t need to eat or sleep. They lived like wraiths, their invisible hands soothing him, serving him, waiting for the day when they too would be free of this terrible curse.

His parents were horrible people, but they weren’t murderers, and so every day, a large bundle of food appeared on his doorstep for him to eat. In the beginning, he’d stayed a snake, gulping down his food in one large swallow, wracked with self pity and disgust over his appearance. But as the years passed, he found he could also become a man, or… what approximated a man, covered in dark scales, and he’d started spending time with two arms and two legs as well. Began eating the food that was dropped at his chamber doors with his hands, rather than gulping it down whole as the great serpent, though he still had the tendency to forget to chew. His body had qualities of both man and serpent, and it took a long time to make those parts work together. 

The rooms locked from the outside, and so he was a prisoner, for what felt like an eternity, until one day, perhaps thirty years after his imprisonment began, when the food stopped coming. He’d slammed his great snake body against the door again and again until his scales were ripped and bruised and bleeding, but eventually succeeded in opening the door and slithering out into the hall. The castle was empty. His parents had died and been buried. Because of the rumors spread among remaining staff, many of them young people who’d taken over for their parents who’d served the royal family, that there was a horrid beast living in a tower in the castle, they had fled after the funeral. The castle had become an abandoned ghostly place, and Crowley and his invisible servants were the only living souls left. 

He’d never forget the first time he’d stepped in front of a mirror as his man-form and seen his yellow eyes and scaled face, his scaled hands with black nails. He’d shrieked in fear, then flung a heavy ale mug at the mirror, smashing it into a thousand pieces. His face was gruesome, disgusting. A face no one would ever love again. He’d been hailed as one of the most handsome men in the kingdom before he was cursed, and now? Now he looked like a hideous demon from the pits of hell. He was a monster. A beast. 

He’d summoned up the dark glasses as a way to keep his eyes hidden, for he couldn’t even bear the thought of his servants seeing them, and he’d ordered all the mirrors in the castle rooms he frequented removed or destroyed. 

It was only a few years after he’d resumed residence in the castle proper that he found the strange room in the west wing. It was a room that had been used for storage of some old paintings, some gilded mirrors (blessedly covered with sheets), and a few family heirlooms. But what interested Crowley was the small table in the center of the dusty room and what stood upon it.

It was a glass case, and inside of it was a great, red rose, floating as if supported by invisible hands. The rose was beautiful and full and blood red, it’s velvety soft petals gleaming like rubies. And that’s when the words of Agnes Nutter’s long ago curse came back to him. 

_ A half life thou shalt live, as serpent and scaled man, until the last petal falls. If true love’s kiss doth not find thee, the snake will swallow thee whole.  _

Until the last petal falls… And that was when he’d noticed the bottom of the glass case and how there were two petals there, fallen from the head of the rose over time, withered and wrinkled, dead.  _ When the rose dies, I shall be trapped as a beast forever _ , he thought numbly. And as if to prove the point, while he watched, yet another petal loosened and fell from the rose, drifting downwards to settle softly on the floor of the glass enclosure. 

Crowley had drawn back with a hiss of dismay. Yes, the rose was massive and seemed to be in the height of its bloom, with many velvety petals still clinging to the flower, but it would not stay this way forever. It would wither and die eventually, and, if he had not been bestowed with true love’s kiss by then, he would be forever trapped in this horrible half life. 

Crowley shook his head, clearing his mind of the memories of the dreaded rose in the west wing and of his long, lonely years of imprisonment as he walked towards his rooms. Beside him, the ghostly breezes of his dedicated servants whistled and twittered, playing with his hair and tugging at his robes. They could tell he was upset and wanted to sooth him. Such kind souls they were. 

For a long time, Crowley had thought his situation hopeless. No one ever came to his castle, for all those around knew it was enchanted. All the townspeople had moved away or had pledged fealty to new lords, new kingdoms, and he was left alone on his perfectly manicured lands. How to find true love when no one ever came here? And furthermore? How to find true love when he’d only ever loved men? 

When Aziraphale’s pompous brother Gabriel had proverbially spat in his face by rewarding his hospitality with thievery and arrogance, Crowley had demanded that Gabriel provide him with a male companion as a last ditch effort to save his own life. Even if this man who came to stay with Crowley in the castle could never love him, nor he them, he would at least have a companion to while away some of the time. He’d gotten so lonely that he feared he might have lost his mind. 

And this was why, beyond all reason, he’d demanded that another soul be trapped here with him in the castle. As a desperate plea. A final chance to break the curse that kept him chained as a terrible beast. He swore that if his companion, his prisoner did not love him, that he would let the man go. He could not bear to think of keeping another person here with him, against their will, until their dying day. But he couldn’t tell them that. Couldn’t risk them lying to him to say what they knew he wanted to hear in order to win their freedom. 

When he’d first seen Aziraphale, first watched him with his horse in the stables and watched him wander through the castle talking to himself, he’d felt hope bloom in his heart for the first time in many many years. Aziraphale was lovely. His large, kind eyes and white blond curls and his ready smile, even in such an uncertain and scary time, had charmed Crowley immediately. The man was a ray of sunshine in a dark place. And oh how handsome he was, with his wide hazel eyes and well shaped nose and soft, sensual mouth. Crowley was immediately taken with him, to the point where he was too shy to approach Aziraphale for the first day and a half after the man arrived. 

And when he did finally summon up the courage to approach him, the man had fainted dead away. Crowley realized that he’d been living as the giant serpent more and more recently and had forgotten to change into his man form before saying hello, and mentally kicked himself for his lapse. Of course Aziraphale had fainted. It’s not every day one turns around and sees a massive, coal black serpent addressing oneself with the voice of a man.  _ Stupid Crowley. _

But now, now, he had shown Aziraphale his snake form and the horrible, yellow eyed face of his man-form, and his guest had taken it in stride. He was oh so polite and oh so kind, and that kindness, from another living human being after so many years of near solitude, had felt so very good to Crowley. He could easily fall in love with Aziraphale. Had started to already, and with that new warmth unfurling deep in his chest came the icy cold claws of dread. What if Aziraphale did not love him back? He was clearly the only man to ever come to this castle, and if Crowley was so intensely attracted to him already, then he must be the person to break the curse? Mustn’t he be? The whole thing felt fated in a way that was very promising, and yet… how could anyone love Crowley? He was a disgusting beast. A horrible, scaled monstrosity. Who would want to be near a creature such as himself? Who could bear to kiss such a beast? 

Aziraphale was kind, yes, very kind. But he was still a normal man, and for all Crowley knew, he could not even fancy other men. Yes, he was a bachelor uncle by his own admission, and yes, he did seem to have about him some softer, gentler mannerisms that spoke of the possibility that he might desire men. But that was all left up to chance at this point. Everything, Crowley’s life and his future, hung in the balance of his interactions with Aziraphale and what Aziraphale felt and thought. It was all so precarious. 

Crowley sighed again as he entered his rooms and shed his cloak. He was naked beneath it, and rather than look down and see the long, scale covered limbs of his man-shaped body, he shifted into his snake form and curled up on his large bed. He drifted off into an uneasy sleep with the memory of Aziraphale’s smile still ghosting through his mind.


	7. Chapter 7

Aziraphale woke with a start from a nightmare about wandering the endless halls of the castle, unable to find his bedroom or the door to the great hall. Trapped forever in the endless rooms of his decadent prison. Thankfully, the golden sunlight filtering in through his bedroom windows dispelled the feelings of fear and anxiety that lingered after his eyes opened. 

Last night, he’d stayed in the great hall for a little while, availing himself of one of the delightful pastries that were brought to him on a platter by the invisible waitstaff. He’d needed some time alone to go through the events of the afternoon and evening, of meeting Crowley, seeing Crowley for who he really was. And it always helped him process if he could eat while he thought. 

Crowley was still a figure shrouded in mystery, but, at the very least, his name and appearance were known to Aziraphale now. He still felt a small thrill of fear spike through his gut at the memory of that scaled, yellow eyed face appearing from beneath the dark hood. But… he’d found himself growing accustomed to Crowley’s gruesome visage quite quickly. Before too many minutes had passed, Aziraphale found that he could look at Crowley’s face in an objective way. Much like how he did not find the faces of lizards and snakes and fish to be unpleasant, so too had he found Crowley’s face more familiar and less terrifying as the time had gone by. 

He wouldn’t lie to himself, it wasn’t easy to see features so clearly warped and maligned this way. He wondered what had happened for such a creature to exist in the world. Was he the side effect of a spell gone wrong? Had he started life as a normal man, only to become the victim of some curse, or perhaps he’d fallen ill with a magical disease? He’d read of such diseases in books of magical lore. Ladies who burped up frogs. Princes who cried diamond tears. None seemed so all consuming and varied as living life half as a massive snake and half as a scaled and atrocious creature with the body of a man and the skin of a serpent. It was a mystery, and would remain so until the beast saw fit to enlighten Aziraphale. He wouldn’t dare ask Crowley about his past again. Not after seeing him stiffen and take his leave this last time. Clearly it was a sensitive subject, and Aziraphale had no wish to upset his host. 

After eating two pastries and downing another glass of wine, Aziraphale had made his way back to his rooms. It seemed that all he had to do was think of where he wanted to go, and then at the end of the next hall, or at the juncture of the next intersecting hallway, there would be his room. It was clearly magic that made the castle work this way, and Aziaphale would not question it. 

He was strangely pleased and touched to see a golden plaque on his bedroom door, one he hadn’t noticed before. It read simply, ‘Aziraphale’s Room’ in fancy script, engraved in gold. “Oh how nice,” he’d muttered, upon seeing it as he returned to his rooms. The plaque made him feel welcomed. Something he’d had to fight for for decades at home, was given so freely here, in this strange castle on these strange lands. It appeared his host was not a heartless animal after all. He at least had the decency to properly invite Aziraphale into his life and his castle. It was the utmost irony that here, a captive in the beast’s castle, he felt more autonomous and more welcomed than he ever had at home. 

Aziraphale stretched languidly, reveling in the feel of the silk sheets against his skin, combined with the delicious tingling in his arms and legs from his stretch. He swung his feet out of the bed and into a waiting pair of soft, woolen slippers and saw that he’d again been given breakfast on a silver tray. 

“I could get used to this,” he said to the room in general. Then he felt a small stab of guilt, that he was so quickly growing accustomed to this posh new life, as if he were betraying the still fresh memory of manor Fell, of Anathema and the children he loved so dearly. Newly sobered, he walked over to the tray and lifted the lid, to see a pile of the most delicious looking berry crepes. He sat and ate heartily, making happy little noises as he felt the sweet, perfectly prepared crepes melt in his mouth. 

After breakfast, he was delighted to discover a full washroom attached to his bedroom, complete with a large marble bathtub. He’d heard tell of bathtubs from Tadfieldians who’d traveled to far off lands, and had always wanted to try one, and here was his chance! As if reading his mind, invisible hands brought over buckets of steaming hot water as if from nowhere and began to fill the tub. Aziraphale gratefully disrobed, taking a minute to apologize to the servants, hoping none of them were female, or easily embarrassed, before sinking into the hot water with a sigh of pleasure. Feeling the heat of the bath surround him as he sank up to his neck was indescribable. He took a few moments just to sit and soak, letting the incredible heat seep into his flesh and joints and muscles. Soon though, he discovered a heavenly smelling bar of soap and put it to good use, scrubbing his arms and legs, chest and nether regions and reaching down to give his toes a good scrub as well. Eventually, as the heat from the water started to dissipate, a pair of unseen hands held out a large, fluffy towel so that he could leave the tub and dry off. He did so happily, making sure to thank his helpful servant, even if he could not see them. 

In all the excitement and newness of his first two days in the castle, he’d forgotten his saddle bags a second time in the stable, but saw now that some thoughtful soul had retrieved them for him, and had washed and pressed his clothing from home. Also, upon investigating the wardrobe again, he saw that the lavish, fur lined cloaks and jewel toned tunics had now been replaced by plainer clothing. Now the wardrobe was lined with tunics in a muted tartan and beige, cream colored breeches and gray woolen cloaks. All better made and of finer materials than he’d ever dressed himself in back at home, but still, a vast improvement on the posh and outlandishly sumptuous clothes he’d been provided upon arrival. 

Aziraphale saw himself as a simple man, and he’d have felt incredibly out of place in such princely garb. It didn’t suit his portly frame, or his plain features. He’d have felt like a sparrow dressed up as a peacock. 

Dressing himself now in a pair of off-white breeches and a tartan tunic, he pulled on his boots from home and decided to visit Hazel and give her a brush and take her for a ride out in the castle grounds. He knew she must be lonely without the other horses she was accustomed to stabling near, and he missed her warm, solid presence. 

He stepped out of his room, and looking down the hallway that led from his door, he said out loud, in what he hoped was a friendly voice, “I’d like to go to the stables please.” He then walked down the short hallway, made a right hand turn and was confronted with the now familiar doorway to the great hall. He opened it and indeed found himself in the massive vaulted room where he ate his midday and evening meals. He strode swiftly through it and out into the courtyard and to the stables. 

Hazel was glad to see him, wickering and snuffling at his chest with her soft nose in a companionable way, but probably also investigating him to see if he’d brought her any treats. He scratched her behind her ears and gave her a good brushing. “Shall we go for a ride?” he asked her, reaching for her saddle, and she stamped her foot, impatient to get out of the stables. Aziraphale mounted up and off they went. 

He spent an enjoyable morning, riding through the beast’s lands, admiring the fountains and well manicured fields and lovely rolling hills that spread out before he and Hazel as they moved through the lands. Eventually, Aziraphale dismounted and walked, holding Hazel by the reins. He’d been sitting and reading and eating a bit too much since he’d arrived, and it felt good to stretch his legs. 

As the sun reached its zenith in the sky, Aziraphale took Hazel back to the stables and made sure she was clean and comfortable, munching the ever present hay and oats provided to her, before making his way to the great hall for lunch. 

He was a little surprised, but also pleased to see that the beast was already there, waiting for him, sitting a few chairs down from the chair at the head of the table that Aziraphale always used. He rose and bowed as Aziraphale approached, and Aziraphale bowed back in greeting. Crowley had abandoned his dark robes today, in favor of wearing a black doublet and hose and a white lace collar. It made him look quite princely, if not for the dark scales that marred his high cheek-boned face. His scarlet hair was pulled back into a bun at the nape of his neck and he still wore black gloves, hiding his hands. His dark glasses were in place, and again, Aziraphale felt a strange jolt of regret over not being able to see Crowley’s eyes. 

“Good afternoon,” Crowley said softly.

“Good afternoon Crowley,” Aziraphale replied, taking his customary seat. 

“How did you sleep last night? Crowley asked, politely.

“Quite well thank you,” Aziraphale said with a small smile. “And you?” 

“I slept fine. Did you enjoy your ride today?” 

“How did you-” Aziraphale began to ask how Crowley knew he’d been riding, but figuring he’d seen him from one of the castle's many windows, gave up mid-question. “It was very nice, thank you,” he replied instead. “Your grounds are beautiful.”

Crowley nodded his head in acknowledgment of the compliment, but did not respond. Aziraphale took the moment of silence to look over the latest feast laid out on the table before them. Today it was bowls of green salad and tureens of steaming soups and more fresh baked bread and pats of butter, along with cutting boards piled with cheeses the likes of which he’d never seen before. He sighed happily and stood up to start ladeling himself a bowl of a soup that was rich and creamy and smelled of carrots. 

“You know the servants will do that for you don’t you,” remarked Crowley with what could have been a smile in his voice, but it was hard to tell. 

“I prefer to serve myself,” replied Aziraphale with a small grin. “I don’t want to grow too accustomed to being served, what will-” he stopped suddenly, realizing he’d been about to say ‘what will Anathema say to me if I become spoiled’, but quickly redirected his sentence. “What will I do with myself if I grow fat and lazy.” If Crowley noticed Aziraphale’s slip up, he gave no indication of it. “Well,” added Aziraphale, “fatt _er_ anyway.” 

“Suit yourself,” his host replied passively.

“Still not eating with me?” Aziraphale asked, making sure his tone was light. Not wanting to push, but very much wanting a companion to enjoy all of this food with him.

“No, but I’ll drink another glass of wine with you, if that’s alright.”

“That would be very nice,” said Aziraphale as he reached for a roll of some thick, dark bread and scooped a patty of butter onto his knife to spread it liberally across the top of the roll before putting it on his plate. Soon he had a pile of greens, a big bowl of soup and the buttered roll. He poured himself a glass of white wine from a nearby carafe, and then leaned over to pour one for Crowley. 

“So not only will you get your own food, but you’ll serve me as well?” his host asked, still with a laugh in his voice. “Shall I tell the servants that they’re out of a job?”  
  


“Oh I’m sure they’ll find something to do anyway. They’re so industrious, the dear things. Such sweethearts really.”

This got Crowley’s interest, and he sat up a bit straighter in his chair. “How do you know they’re sweet?” he asked, curious. “You can’t see or hear them.”

  
“Ah, but I can _feel_ their intent,” Aziraphale explained. “There is a specific _way_ people conduct themselves in the way they hold things, or move things about with their hands that says a lot about the type of person they are. Your servants are so careful and so gentle, and yet so efficient. And they are tirelessly dedicated to my comfort. Only a particularly sweet person would behave this way. Why even when I told them I wouldn’t wear their fancy clothes, they were quite accommodating.” 

“Which fancy clothes?” Crowley asked, a hint of suspicion coloring his tone. 

“Oh, well, my wardrobe was filled to the brim with beautiful clothing, fit for a prince. I’m no prince, and so I told them I preferred simpler clothes. And they swiftly complied.”  
  


“Is that so?” the beast asked, sounding amused. “They’re such matchmakers they are.”

“Matchmakers?” Aziraphale asked, confused. 

Crowley, who’d clearly said something he shouldn’t have, though Aziraphale couldn’t tell what, shifted a bit in his seat and hurriedly changed the subject. “Did you like the bathtub this morning?” 

“Oh my yes! It was fantastic! I’ve always wanted to try one, and I’ve heard they have them in the bigger cities, near the coast, but I’d never been afforded the chance. It is the height of luxury to be able to submerge one’s entire body in hot water is it not?” He smiled as he pushed a large forkful of dressed greens into his mouth and crunched happily on them. 

“I wouldn’t know,” replied Crowley. “I’ve never had a bath. I use the basin in my rooms instead.”

“Oh! Well then, let me tempt you to try one!” Aziraphale exclaimed, then realizing the forwardness of telling his host that he should bathe a certain way, immediately shoved a large bite of buttered bread in his mouth and felt his cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. 

If Crowley was put off or scandalized by Aziraphale’s comment, he gave no indication, he simply chuckled gently, a rasping sound, but not unpleasant. “Thank you for the suggestion. Perhaps one day I’ll try it. Since you recommend it so highly.” 

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale reaffirmed. “It’s not only an exemplary way to clean oneself, but I found that it eased my muscle aches quite effectively. 

“Are you in pain then?” Asked Crowley, his tone becoming a little gentler. 

“Oh, just the usual aches and pains of an old man,” replied Aziraphale with a grin.

“You’re far from old,” remarked Crowley.

“I beg to differ,” said Aziraphale, “for I am just turned fifty. Why, how old are you, if I may ask?” It was a loaded question, for it pertained to Crowley’s personal life, and the beast hadn’t been forthcoming with any personal details to date. 

But Crowley didn’t brush the questions off. Instead he took a sip of his wine and appeared to be thinking for a moment. “I believe,” he said carefully, as if making a mental calculation in his head, “that I am one hundred and twelve years old.” 

“One hundred and twelve!?” Aziraphale could not help but exclaim in surprise. “But, how is that possible?” It was hard to pinpoint Crowley’s age, due to the scales that marred his features, but he moved with the grace of a younger man, and his hair was still flaming red, without a single silver strand in sight. 

“It’s a long story, perhaps for another time,” Crowley replied. “But suffice it to say, you are not as old as you think.” 

Aziraphale nodded, taking his point as he took a sip of his own wine. After he’d finished his lunch, he saw Crowley standing to leave. “Don’t go yet,” he said, reaching out a hand to forestall Crowley’s exit. His host paused, in the act of standing from his chair and turned his face in Aziraphale’s direction expectantly, his brows rising in surprise. For the first time, Aziraphale noticed that although his brows were surrounded by scales, like much of his face, that they were finely shaped, and once one grew accustomed to the color scheme of Crowley’s features, it was easier to read his expression by the movement of them. 

“I...I… thought we could talk in the library for a while. Perhaps you could tell me more about the books, tell me some of your favorites. And I really have no idea where it is. Perhaps you could lead me there?” he asked, feeling suddenly awkward and exposed over requesting more of the beast’s company. He was lonely, he realized. Having no one else to talk to, and there was no denying that the beast was good company. He was an attentive and interesting conversationalist, even if his face were a bit difficult to look upon.

“Certainly,” Crowley replied, “Follow me and I’ll lead you there now.” His voice had taken on a careful tone that Aziraphale could not place. 

Crowley rose and Aziraphale stood up and followed him as he led the way out of the door in the great hall. They went down two large hallways and through three rooms and then turned a corner, and there was the library, spread out before them. Aziraphale gasped anew at the sight of it, which elicited a chuckle from Crowley, who was clearly pleased at how impressed Aziraphale was with the massive profusion of books before them.

“There can’t be this many books in the whole world,” said Aziraphale, his eyes traveling over the shelves upon shelves upon shelves of books that filled the massive room.

“There aren’t,” Crowley replied cryptically. 

“Whatever do you mean?” Asked Aziraphale. 

“Well,” Crowley began, clearly pausing to choose his words carefully, “There are books here that haven’t technically been written yet. And books that have been written, but in lands beyond our ability to reach.”

“Do you mean that this library holds books written in years… yet to come?” Asked Aziraphale with wonder. His brain tried to wrap itself around that fact, and stalled out instead, unable to absorb the enormity of what he’d just been told. 

“Yes,” replied Crowley simply. “But don’t think about it too much, it will drive you mad. Almost drove me mad before I learned to accept it.” He turned to Aziraphale with a small smile on his soft lips. 

“Oh my. I see,” Aziraphale remarked, unable to think of any other way to respond. He stepped further into the library and picked up a volume. “The Graveyard Book, by Niel Gaiman,” he read out loud. “Is this one of those future books you spoke of?”

“That it is,” said Crowley, clearly enjoying Aziraphale’s awe. 

“And this one,” Aziraphale pulled another random book from the shelves. “A Study In Scarlet, by Arthur Conan Doyle.” 

“Yes,” replied Crowley. “You might enjoy that one, though there are a few inventions mentioned in it that you’ll find very unfamiliar. It’s a mystery novel about a great detective.” 

“I see,” Aziraphale said, though really he didn’t. He reshelved the book and instead reached for a familiar one a few rows down. “Oh! I was reading this one recently. It was quite lovely. The imagery was very moving.” He plucked the book by Federico Garcia Lorca down from the shelf and opened it to the page he’d left off at, reading aloud from the words on the page. 

“But like love

the archers

are blind

Upon the green night,

the piercing saetas

leave traces of warm

lily.

The keel of the moon

breaks through purple clouds

and their quivers

fill with dew.

Ay, but like love

the archers

are blind!”

He looked up from the book to see Crowley watching him from behind his dark shades, and he looked away, face heating. “It’s quite lovely, the poetry,” he mumbled, feeling very self conscious all of a sudden. “Though I don’t know what a saeta is.” 

“It’s a religious hymn,” supplied Crowley. 

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale responded, still unable to look at Crowley’s scaled face. He flipped to a new page in the book and read another poem. 

“Night of Sleepless Love

High night for us both and full moon

I began to cry and you were laughing

Your scorn was a god and my laments

were moments and doves in chains

Low night for us both sorrow crystal

you cried for the deep distances

and my pain was a heap of dying

on your weak heart of sand

Dawn entangled us in bed

mouths pressing on the icy flow

of endlessly spilling blood

Sun streaked through the shuttered balcony

and the coral of life unfurled its branch

above my shrouded heart”

Aziraphale stopped reading and sighed, “The words,” he said, “the words this poet uses are unusual to me, and thrilling. They aren’t flowery and verbose like the poets I’m used to, but simple and profound and strange all at once.” 

“That particular one was a poem written to his male lover,” Crowley said, his voice low and careful. 

Aziraphale’s eyes shot up instantly to Crowley’s face, sure he’d misheard him. “A male lover you say?” he asked, a tremor running through his voice that he tried in vain to hide. “Do you mean to tell me that…”  
  


“That he loved men romantically? That he had relations with other men? Yes,” responded Crowley. His voice stayed soft and level and completely free of emotion, making it impossible to tell whether he approved of this practice or not. 

Aziraphale’s heart was pounding at his temples, and he was sure his face was flushed pink from the feel of the heat radiating from his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “I… I did not think such men could have their works published,” he said weakly, not wanting to give away his secret, but badly wanting more information about this mysterious poet. 

“They can in the place and time that book was written,” replied Crowley. “And in other places and times, beyond our reach.” 

“Oh.” said Aziraphale numbly. To think, there was a place on this earth where a man could write of love for another man and not have his work burned in the fire or not be shunned by his family for being an aberration of nature. 

“He was murdered anyway,” Crowley continued, “so perhaps his time was not quite so accepting as all that.” And something about the way he spoke of the poet made a small suspicion bloom inside Aziraphale’s mind. He pushed it away for the time being, desperate for a change of subject. 

“Which books are your favorites?” he asked, striving to lighten the mood and pull the conversation away from the love of men for other men. 

“Oh I have many, but my hands were not made for the turning of pages, and so, I’m afraid it’s easy to tell which ones I’ve read and which I haven’t.” He then removed a glove to show Aziraphale one of his hands. It was half covered in shining black scales, like his face, with stripes of black running down the tendons of his hand and down to the tips of each long, graceful finger. His nails were dark and sharp like claws. “I can cut them, but they always grow back,” he said absently, turning his hand this way and that so Aziraphale could see it clearly before putting it back into the leather glove he wore. 

Rather than feeling disgusted or disturbed, Aziraphale felt honored to be able to see yet another part of Crowley’s body. A part he’d clearly hidden until now. It showed that the beast was growing to trust him more.

“My hands, pretty as they are, aren't all that good at turning the pages of books,” he said. 

“Oh dear, how horrible!” Aziraphale exclaimed, then seeing the uncertain look Crowley gave him, he scrambled to explain further. “The not being able to turn the pages of books is horrible, not your hands, my dear.”

_My dear_ had just slipped out, but Aziraphale saw the surprised rise of eyebrows from Crowley at the affectionate term. My, this was an awkward conversation. “Perhaps, I can read to you,” suggested Aziraphale, trying to make things less awkward, but instead only increasing the awkwardness ten fold. “That is, if there are any books you’d like to read that you cannot, erm… handle appropriately. I’d be glad to do it. I read to the children at home all the time.”

Crowley smiled at him, displaying a row of bright white teeth with gleaming, pointed incisors. It was an intimidating smile, but Aziraphale believed it was meant to be friendly. “That would be nice.” he said. “There has been a book I’ve been meaning to read that I think you’ll also enjoy.” And with that, he strode off into the rows of bookshelves, leaving Aziraphale to trot after him. He stopped a few rows back and grabbed a leather bound volume from the shelves. He handed it to Aziraphale, who looked at the gold embossed cover with curiosity.

“The Hobbit,” he read, looking up at Crowley with curiosity. “What is it about?” 

“Oh, it’s a great adventure tale. And it doesn’t deal with too many strange concepts. I think you’ll like it,” he explained. 

“Very well then, I’ll be happy to read it to you.” Aziraphale smiled. Crowley smiled back. They stood there for a moment, smiling at one another, until Aziraphale realized that he should probably find a place for them to sit and read. “I think I saw a sofa and some armchairs in the main room of the library back that way,” he said. “Perhaps we can sit there while I read?”

“That sounds wonderful,” Crowley replied, and let Aziraphale lead the way. Soon they were both settled on opposite ends of a plush, velvet upholstered sofa and Aziraphale opened the book to the first page. Very quickly he became lost in the story of young Bilbo Baggins and his mysterious quest. He immediately identified with Bilbo’s love of home and love of food, and paused briefly in his reading to remark on this fact, which made Crowley chuckle.

Aziraphale read for probably two hours while Crowley sat patiently and listened to him. Soon, the clock chimed six, and Aziraphale put his book down. “Perhaps now is a good time to take a break,” he said. “Would you care to join me again for dinner?” 

Crowley nodded eagerly, seeming pleased to be invited, and the two made their way back to the great hall, with Crowley leading the way. Yet another feast was laid out on the large table, and this time, Aziraphale could not help but ask. “Where does all this food come from? I’d hate for it to go to waste, as there is far too much for me to eat.”

“Don’t worry about that,” replied Crowley. “Whatever is left uneaten is sent somewhere to people who can use it.” This response was cryptic, but it temporarily satisfied Aziraphale’s worries that the food would just be thrown away if it weren’t eaten. 

He happily fixed himself a plate of roast chicken and sugared acorn squash and a spicy rice dish and poured them both a glass of wine, before sitting down and tucking in. Part way through chewing a delightful mouthful of rice and a bit of chicken, he looked up to see Crowley watching him again, and he grew bashful, ducking his head and casting his eyes down at his plate.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, “I don’t mean to stare. It’s just that I’ve been alone here for so long, and it feels good to have someone to feed and to talk to. You enjoy the food I give you so much and it’s… it's just nice to see someone experience joy within these walls.” 

Aziraphale stopped eating for a moment, feeling that he’d been told something more profound than what Crowley’s words conveyed on the surface. There was a great well of loneliness in this creature’s strange soul. He must have spent many years on his own and must be glad indeed to have a companion to talk to. “Well,” he replied, striving to keep his response light and friendly, “you are quite good company. And your food is indeed spectacular.” 

He wished he could see Crowley’s eyes, for the beast’s face remained unreadable behind his dark shades, but he picked up his wine glass and held it aloft for a toast. “To good food and good company,” he intoned. 

“To good food and good company,” repeated Aziraphale, clinking his glass to Crowley’s and taking a sip. He felt a warmth unspooling in his chest as he glanced shyly at Crowley over the rim of his glass. The feeling of camaraderie. Of making a new friend. 


	8. Chapter 8

And so the days went by, turning slowly into weeks, which then turned into months. Aziraphale grew accustomed to all the magical quirks of the castle. He grew used to the invisible servants, noting that each one had its own distinct personality. One was always extra hesitant and careful, another, more brusque and a bit forceful when trying to push a posh, fur lined cloak onto Aziraphale’s shoulders, or an extra piece of bread onto his plate. A brusque mother-hen. There was one servant who was clearly impish and playful, and Aziraphale grew used to having a towel or a cup of tea or a platter of food pulled away from his grasp at the last minute, accompanied by a flutter of air that could have been a giggle. He greatly enjoyed the little games he played with this servant, and chided them fondly, or simply played along, trying to grab the articles back swifter than they could move them. 

He developed a sort of daily routine, rising and having breakfast, followed by a hot bath, then a ride around the grounds with Hazel. Often he’d dismount and walk beside her so as to stretch his legs and make sure he stayed fit. After his mid morning ride, he’d usually meet Crowley in the library for an hour or two of reading out loud, which almost always turned into a pleasant chat when Aziraphale paused in the story to remark on this or that plot point. 

After a few hours spent reading to Crowley and talking in the library, the beast would usually excuse himself for a while until dinner, leaving Aziraphale on his own to peruse whatever books he pleased. He worked his way happily through several large volumes on a variety of topics during those hours of personal study. Sometimes, he’d open a book and be so perplexed by the words inside it, by inventions he’d never heard of and could not imagine, or by words for objects he simply did not recognize, and be forced to put it aside. But even considering that many of the books in the library had been written in the future, in years yet to come, a fact that still completely confused Aziraphale, it still left hundreds of books he _did_ understand for him to read. 

When the grandfather clock in the library chimed six, he would make his way to the great hall and eat dinner, while Crowley sat nearby with his customary glass of wine. They would talk for hours, during dinner and afterwards, about Aziraphale’s life and the books he’d read and his loved ones back home. The beast began to open up a bit about his own life, telling Aziraphale that he’d been raised in a wealthy family as a spoiled prince, and that he’d been punished, forced to live as a beast by his bitter, resentful parents. He wouldn’t go into too much detail about his fate, and it always seemed to sadden him to speak of the past, but at least he let Aziraphale see a bit more of his history and why he lived the way he did. 

Aziraphale did not press for more details, and always let Crowley speak until he changed the subject. His host also spoke of his adventures as a youth, through distant lands, and the tangled political nature of the court in which he was raised. He spoke at length of his old friends, the friends he’d had before the curse took hold, and of his servants. This was how Aziraphale learned that the brusque mother-hen was named Katherine, and that the gentle one was named Tristan, and the playful one was called Edward. It felt good to know that his servants were once real people, with real, flesh and blood bodies and active minds, even if they were now reduced to invisible breezes. He made a mental note to refer to them by their names from now on. Isabel and Jonathan mainly saw to Crowley’s needs, and so Aziraphale was less familiar with them. 

Every night, when Crowley bid him good evening, Aziraphale felt a small pang of regret, a pang that grew stronger as he got to know Crowley better and spent more time in his company. He _liked_ his beastly host. Quite a bit. It was difficult not to like Crowley, with his sardonic sense of humor and his curiosity and his gentle mannerisms. To think that only a few short months ago, Aziraphale had lived in terror at the thought of meeting Crowley, and now… well, now, he would consider him a good friend. 

Crowley’s face became easier and easier to look upon, until one day, Aziraphale looked up at the beast’s regal profile, black scales and all and realized that Crowley was actually quite handsome. His face had become familiar, had lost its taboo wrongness, and now when Aziraphale looked at Crowley, he saw the fine shape of his eyebrows, the narrow length of his nose and the fullness of his lips, his sharp cheekbones and long, slender neck. Crowley had taken to keeping his gloves off when around Aziraphale, and so Aziraphale also grew accustomed to seeing his long, elegant hands, tipped with sharp, pointed fingernails move through the air as he spoke. This too seemed to add to Crowley’s physical appeal. 

This realization made him a little uncomfortable, for it meant that he was settling into his imprisonment, becoming used to his circumstances. It meant that he was enjoying his time at the castle and forgetting what his life had been like before. And so he shoved such thoughts of Crowley’s appearance becoming more appealing to him deep down inside and tried to pretend they did not exist. 

There were still times when Aziraphale longed for home. When memories of Anathema and Thomas and Petunia and all the other children who’d relied on him to teach them, welled up inside his mind, and his heart felt as if it was being pulled out of his chest with how much he missed them. He’d never broached the subject of his leaving, being allowed to visit his home. He feared that it would be the height of disrespect to ask to leave, when he’d already promised Crowley that he’d stay indefinitely. 

And so, he kept his homesickness to himself and suffered in silence. And really, he had little else to complain about. He was extremely well fed and cared for. He had all the books any man could ever dream of reading, and, what was becoming more and more apparent to him, he had a dear friend. He’d never been quite this close to another adult person before. He’d never been able to indulge in deep conversation and exchange ideas and laugh with someone like this before. Back home in Tadfield, he’d been beloved by the townspeople, and he’d had friends, yes, friends like Dierdre and Arthur, and to a degree, his niece Anathema, but his relationship with Crowley was different. More mature. More intimate. 

He’d even grown used to Crowley’s snake form. After a couple of weeks of reading in the library, he’d rounded the corner, expecting to see Crowley sitting on his side of their customary sofa, and instead, he’d been confronted with the giant snake. Crowley had asked, in his sibilant hiss if Aziraphale would prefer it if he took the shape of a man, but Aziraphale, wanting to know all of Crowley, to not be unsettled by the parts of him he was unaccustomed to, had asked him to stay as a snake. Crowley explained that sometimes it was just simpler to stay as a serpent for a while. He could coil himself up comfortably on the sofa, and this form allowed him to move about the castle with more ease than as a four limbed man. 

Aziraphale, nodding at Crowley’s explanation, had sat down next to him on the sofa, keeping a respectful few feet between them and opened their latest book, the third book in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and proceeded to read as if he weren’t sitting next to a massive snake. After that point, it became something of a habit for Crowley to shift into snake form for story time. Eventually, Aziraphale noticed that Crowley would uncoil a little bit and let the side of his great, scaled body rest against Aziraphale’s leg as he read. A snake seeking warmth. It was quite sweet really. Crowley’s snake form, once he’d gotten used to it, had a gentle disposition. He spoke less than when he was a man, but also, snake-Crowley would touch Aziraphale, whereas man-Crowley never did. 

A gentle lean of scales against Aziraphale's leg eventually became a great snake head that came to rest on Aziraphale’s knee. Aziraphale dared not move or show any sign that he’d noticed Crowley getting closer, touching him more. He didn’t want to scare the great serpent away. And truth be told, he craved the physical contact. He’d grown used to hugging Anathema and the other children, had grown used to fond pats on his hand and kisses on the cheek from Madam Tracy during his teatime visits to her cottage. No one had touched him in months. And so he gladly welcomed Crowley’s gentle serpentine touches. He also guessed that both Crowley reaching out and Aziraphale accepting these requests for contact was easier if Crowley was in his serpent form. 

Slowly, over the course of a few more days, he felt the end of Crowley’s long tail coil around his lower leg and squeeze him warmly, in addition to the massive head that rested on his knee. Then, a few days after that, the tail wrapped possessively around his waist and the head came to rest on his belly. Eventually, he was completely wrapped in the serpent’s coiled embrace while he read, and he’d taken to lying back, using Crowley’s long, sinewy body as a dual pillow and an armrest. It should have unnerved him, would have terrified anyone else, to have a massive snake wrapped around them, but to Aziraphale, it felt like what it was intended to be. The warm embrace of a close friend. 

Crowley’s snake form, like all serpents, was cold blooded, and so Aziraphale knew he probably enjoyed the heat coming off of Aziraphale’s body. And the serpent soaked up Aziraphale’s heat and fed it back to him, until they were trading heat back and forth. It was now the dead of winter, and though the castle and it’s lands weren’t as bitter cold as the world outside, there was still a chill in the air, and so Azirpahale found himself very much enjoying their storytime snuggles. Crowley never mentioned this newfound closeness during dinners they spent together, when Crowley was in his man-shape, and Aziraphale took his example to heart and did not bring it up either, assuming that Crowley was shy. 

It was a snowy afternoon in early January, and Aziraphale was lying on the sofa with Crowley’s snake body wrapped around him as usual. The serpent’s head, heavy, but not unpleasantly so, rested on Aziraphale’s chest, his slender, forked tongue flicking out to test the air every so often, his yellow, slitted eyes closed. He looked very happy, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but reach out a hand to stroke Crowley’s scaled head as he read out loud. The scales of Crowley’s skin felt smooth and warm beneath his fingers. The snow fell softly outside and Aziraphale was so warm and comfortable, that he felt his eyelids drooping. Crowley’s breath, through his narrow snake nostrils was slow and even, and he guessed that the snake was asleep. Soon, Aziraphale succumbed to the urge to nap and let the book fall gently to the floor, closing his eyes and drifting off into a comfortable sleep. 

He woke sometime later, keeping his eyes closed, still deliciously warm, but aware that something had changed. He could no longer feel the weight of Crowley’s great snake coils wrapped around him, but instead realized he was being held by a pair of human arms. He felt the body of a man on top of him, a slender leg pressed between his own, a smaller, human head resting on his chest. 

Crowley had taken on the form of a man again in his sleep. He felt the slender arms currently wrapped around his waist squeeze him more tightly in their embrace and felt Crowley nuzzle his face a bit into Aziraphale’s chest and moan softly in his sleep. Aziraphale’s hands were resting on Crowley’s back, and he could feel bare skin and smooth scales beneath his palms. Crowley was apparently naked, which made sense if he’d switched to his human form while unconscious. The knowledge of this fact however, caused Aziraphale’s body to respond in several ways at once. His pulse began to race, and he froze, barely daring to breath. He’d never lain with a man like this before. Had never touched Crowley in his man shape before. He dared to open his eyes and was greeted with the sight of a beautiful profusion of bright red hair, spilling over his chest and tickling his nose from where Crowley’s head rested against him. Crowley moved again, this time, snuggling even closer and moaning again, his voice vibrating against Aziraphale’s chest. 

Aziraphale was rendered momentarily breathless at the wave of lust that washed through him, pulling a quiet gasp from his mouth. His body, having spent decades without intimate male touch of this kind, was suddenly aflame with want, and it took every ounce of control he possessed not to cant his hips upwards, to seek friction for the stiffening he felt inside his breeches. His heart was pounding in his chest as the herbal, fresh scent of Crowley’s lovely hair filled his nostrils and his body tingled from the pressure of Crowley’s weight pressing down against him. By Crowley’s slow and even breathing, Aziraphale could tell he had fallen back asleep, which posed a problem. It meant that Aziraphale was trapped. Trapped, pressed up against the lithe, muscular, sweet smelling form of a beautiful creature. A creature whose knee was currently butting up against Aziraphale in a way that sent lightning bolts of sexual arousal sparking through his core. 

_A beautiful creature._

Now why hadn’t Aziraphale ever thought of Crowley that way before? He’d referred to him inside his own mind as _the beast_ , or _my host_ , or even simply _Crowley._ But never as _beautiful_ . Never as a _man_. But now, perhaps embarrassingly late in the game, the full force of Crowley’s masculinity and his unearthly beauty came crashing through Aziraphale’s subconscious barriers like a tidal wave. 

Crowley was _beautiful_ . And he smelled _sweet_ , and oh how the weight of his strong, slender body on top of Aziraphale’s made Aziraphale’s mind fill with thoughts he’d never considered before. Thoughts about what Crowley’s lips might taste like were he to kiss them. Thoughts about what those smooth scales might feel like under Aziraphale’s reverent fingertips. 

Crowley shifted slightly in his sleep, moving his hips a little to the side and suddenly Aziraphale was made _very_ aware of Crowley’s maleness in a very direct manner as he felt a hot stiff length pressing against his upper thigh. 

_Oh dear god in heaven_ Aziraphale prayed silently, unable to stifle a soft groan from escaping his lips. 

Unfortunately, this woke his sleeping host. Crowley slowly stirred, then lifted his head to look at Aziraphale, blinking sleepily. 

Their eyes locked, and all suggestion of grogginess fled Crowley’s face. Their lips were oh so close. They were breathing each other’s air. Time seemed to slow down as Aziraphale’s gaze frantically searched Crowley’s face, now only inches from his own. 

Aziraphale saw the progression of Crowley’s thoughts and emotions play out across his unique features as clear as day. For a split second, a warm sort of affection echoed in the beast’s yellow eyes as they stared into Aziraphale’s wide, blue-gray ones. Then a spark of confusion, followed by a widening of alarm. 

“C-Crowley…” stammered Aziraphale in a panic, not knowing quite what to say. “Crowley, I.. I..”

“ _Oh my god,_ ” Crowley said, his eyes growing fearful and his face closing up in shame and alarm. “Oh my god Aziraphale, I am _so sorry_ ,” he must have sensed the state of his own body where it was pressed up against Aziraphale’s, and he quickly scrambled backwards. That was unfortunately when he realized that he was completely undressed. “Oh! Oh my god. I...I… didn’t mean for… I didn’t…”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale pleaded, sitting up, trying to avoid looking at Crowley’s long, naked limbs, while struggling to reassure him that nothing was wrong. “It’s alright… It’s fine. I…”

“Its _not alright!_ ” Crowley hissed, his face full of anguish, attempting to cover his nudity with his hands, then promptly turning back into a serpent and slithering away across the gleaming tiles of the library floor. This was the first time Aziraphale had witnessed the change, and he was shocked by its abruptness. One second, Crowley was a long limbed, scarlet haired man, the next he was a long, coal black serpent with a red belly, wending its way quickly toward the exit. 

“Crowley no! Please don’t go!” Aziraphale called after him, struggling to a standing position and starting to go after Crowley, but the serpent was too fast, and he’d already slithered out the door and out of sight. “It’s alright,” Aziraphale whispered hopelessly as he sat back down and put his head in his hands. “Please come back,” he said to the tiles beneath his feet, even though he knew Crowley must be half the castle’s length away by now. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Crowley's POV is a bit angsty, but can you blame him? He's been a snake for a hundred years. Poor lovesick snek :(

Crowley slithered to his rooms before turning back into the shape of a man and slamming the door behind him. He grabbed his dressing gown from a hook on the wall and wrapped himself in it before throwing himself down on his bed with a growl of frustration. How had he let his walls down so thoroughly? How had he allowed himself to change forms and to become so inflamed with desire and to push himself on Aziraphale? He shuddered at the memory of the look on the other man’s face as he’d gazed up into those beautiful, stormy eyes. A look of confusion, and discomfort.

He’d crossed a line, and what was worse, he’d done it subconsciously, in his sleep. But how was Aziraphale to know that Crowley hadn’t  _ meant _ to transform into a naked man. It had taken weeks to gain Aziraphale’s trust with touching him more. Careful steps, taken inch by inch in order to get closer to him, all the while maintaining the innocent animal form of the great serpent. He’d managed to find this beautiful, deep intimacy, wrapping his scales around Aziraphale, sharing warmth, sharing comfort. And then he’d gone and ruined it by injecting a sexual element. By switching back, naked, erect, lascivious. 

He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment, trying in vain to shove the memory from his mind. It was a violation, a breach of trust he’d committed, and what was worse... he’d enjoyed it. Had  _ loved  _ it in fact. Those few innocent seconds of waking in Aziraphale’s tender embrace, feeling his soft, lovely body, so warm and yielding beneath his own. 

It had taken Crowley a little while when he’d awoken, to realize that he’d switched from beast to man. He’d spent so many years as one or the other that they’d started to blend together in his awareness. It wasn’t until he’d felt the tight flush of desire at the center of him (something he never felt as the serpent), and had lifted his head, seeing his own flame colored hair draped part way across his vision that he’d realized his mistake. 

But oh how good it felt to hold Aziraphale in his arms. Even for those brief moments. He’d longed to do that for months now. But he never would have… never could have imagined fulfilling his desires without asking Aziraphale, unless the other man had wanted it too. And since asking had seemed impossible, (how could Aziraphale ever consent to be held in the arms of a freak of nature, a half man, half monster?) he’d settled happily for wrapping around him as an innocent beast. As the snake he felt no sexual drive, and so it had seemed reasonable to slyly request more touch without using words. It was so much easier and less painfully vulnerable than coming out and asking for it verbally. 

And miracle of all miracles, Aziraphale had seemed genuinely open to his advances when he’d been in his serpent form. He’d gladly allowed Crowley to curl around him and squeeze him tight. And it had felt oh so delightful. Oh so good to feel loved. Even if it was only platonic in nature. 

And now he’d gone and ruined it all. 

Isabel and Johnathan fluttered around him, offering him hot cups of tea and pulling the blankets up around his shoulders, tutting and murmuring worriedly until he banished them with an impatient wave of his hand and a hiss of irritation. 

He had been so close to gaining Aziraphale’s trust. So close to building a solid foundation of friendship and caring that he could have used to perhaps test to see if there could one day be more. 

He was now almost certain that Aziraphale fancied men. He hadn’t talked about it explicitly yet, but he never mentioned any women in his life in any sort of romantic capacity. He had mentioned being considered an outcast in his home village, and also that same sex relationships were deeply taboo there, and Crowley could only hope beyond hope that this meant Aziraphale was like him. That he too loved other men. That he might one day love Crowley. 

But now, all of that was in jeopardy. He’d gone and rubbed himself up against Aziraphale without any clothing on, like some sort of randy harlot. He could never trust himself to relax around Aziraphale again, for fear that his body would betray him and further risk pushing the sweet, kind man away. 

Crowley pulled the covers up over his head and wished that he could fall asleep for the next hundred years. He didn’t want to leave his rooms to face Aziraphale again any time soon, and swore that he’d spend the next several days sequestered in his bed. He could hear Jonathan and Isabel whispering about him, worrying about him, just out of earshot, and he ignored them, gnashing his teeth and rolling about in anxious twists and turns until he fell into a fitful sleep. 


	10. Chapter 10

Aziraphale had sat on the sofa in the library with his head in his hands for a few more minutes, feeling horrid and unsure what to do next. He couldn’t very well go after Crowley and talk to him. The castle had a way of only allowing him places it (or Crowley) wanted him to go, and he’d never seen Crowley’s rooms. He doubted it would let him go there now. Since he knew Crowley wouldn’t be back for a while, he decided to forego dinner in the great hall and just head back to his own rooms. What would dinner be without Crowley anyway?

He left the library, made two left turns and ended up outside his own bedroom door. Aziraphale was still unsettled by Crowley’s adverse reaction, as well as confused and exhausted. He gladly let Tristan and Edward nudge him towards a hot bath while Katherine laid out his night clothes and turned down the bed in the other room. He could tell it was her because of the brusque way she flung open closet doors and whipped clothing about in swift proficiency. 

“What would I do without the three of you?” he asked as he stripped and prepared to step into the hot bath.

“Did you hear that?” came a voice, faint and with a mischievous giggle underneath. “Can’t live without us.”

Aziraphale froze, partway through stepping into the steaming water.

“D’you think he can hear us? He got very still just now,” a second voice chimed in, this one deeper, perhaps older?

_ They don’t know I can hear them, Aziraphale _ realized, and smoothly covered for his slip up by sinking into the water as if he hadn’t just heard a pair of disembodied voices referring to him personally.

“Nah,” replied the first voice. “Don’t think so. Master told us he wouldn’t be able to. Only those who’re bound by the curse can hear us.” 

“Alright then, if you say so,” the second voice piped up again, sounding hesitant and a bit nervous. 

_ Tristan, _ Aziraphale thought, suddenly recognizing the personality behind the shy, gentle invisible servant that looked after him daily.

“I  _ do _ say so. That’s what the master told me anyway. Though, angel here is a smart one. If anyone could figure it out, it’d be him.”

_ Edward _ , thought Aziraphale instantly, hearing an impish tone under the younger person’s voice. Then,  _ Angel? _

“Such a sweet man. He deserves to be happy, so does the master. I hope this all ends well,” this from Tristan.

“I do too,” said Edward. “The master is in such a horrible state tonight. Tossing and turning, clawing the sheets half to shreds. He has Jonathan in a tizzy.”

“He’d never hurt his angel though, would he?” Tristan’s dim voice sounded sad and soft.

“No, of course he wouldn’t. He’d rather die than harm a hair on that man’s head.” 

After that, the voices stopped and the breezes fluttered away to do some other task while Aziraphale enjoyed his bath. But, although he appeared relaxed on the outside, his mind was racing on the inside with the implications of what had just transpired. 

He could hear the servants speaking! And apparently, he wasn’t supposed to have this skill. Only the beast was supposed to hear them. And so why Aziraphale? It was a strange mystery, and he became convinced that if he wanted to find out more about this curse and more about the beast, that he shouldn’t let on that he could hear them. 

And what of them calling him angel? And was it really  _ him _ they were calling angel, or was there some other mystery yet to be solved within the castle’s walls? And oh, his poor Crowley, tossing and turning and in a dark mood. He felt his heart twist painfully at the thought that what had happened between them was causing Crowley anguish. He decided not to let Crowley know he could hear the servants either. It was a bit sneaky to keep quiet, but he had to use every advantage at his disposal to solve the mystery of this cursed castle and its cursed prince. It was all rather confusing. Aziraphale mulled it over while he let the heat of the bath water soak into his skin. 

After his bath, he dressed for bed and lay down to sleep, but spent a good bit of time tossing and turning, the memory of what had transpired on the library sofa filling him with conflicting feelings of lust and regret.

____________________________________________________________

  
  


The next day, after his breakfast and quick wash in the basin in his room, he dressed and went for his usual ride around the grounds. Although it was a clear, crisp day, and the rolling hills and green fields of the beast’s lands were gleaming in the late winter sunshine, Aziraphale could think of nothing but Crowley. Had he insulted Crowley? Worse, had he disgusted him? Had he been horrified to wake up in Aziraphale’s arms, naked? Yes, he’d exhibited clear signs of arousal, but men’s… members did that sometimes didn’t they? Hardened in their sleep. It wasn’t really proof that Crowley desired Aziraphale, simply because he’d awoken from a nap with an erection. He could very well have been dreaming of something enticing, perhaps a woman? and then become bitterly disappointed and embarrassed to wake, lying naked on top of Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale sighed fretfully as he rode. He hoped he hadn’t disturbed the beast too much.  _ The beast _ . That title didn’t seem to fit Crowley anymore, and rang hollow in Aziraphale’s mind. He wasn’t really a beast anymore was he? He’d proven his humanity and his kindness to Aziraphale in a thousand ways since arriving in his castle. Crowley was friendly, compassionate, caring, humorous, intelligent. His only beastly qualities came from his serpentine features, from becoming the great snake, or living with scales adorning his body. Wasn’t Madam Tracy always telling him to see beyond the surface? Beyond the appearance of others to what lay beneath? 

And what lay beneath Crowley’s rough, scaled exterior was a beautiful soul. A generous and affectionate man, who’d had the misfortune of being cursed to a half-life as a monster. But he was far from monstrous. He was actually quite lovely. A fact that was becoming painfully apparent to Aziraphale as the days went by and he grew to look forward to spending time with Crowley more and more. 

Aziraphale dismounted and walked a while, leading Hazel, and still lost in thought. He had hoped Crowley would join him for lunch, but when he entered the great hall, the usual feast was laid out for him, but Crowley was nowhere to be seen. 

Aziraphale sighed and sat himself down to eat, but after a few bites of fish stew and half a buttered roll, he realized that he didn’t have much of an appetite and went instead to the library, hoping to find Crowley there. He went through the door at the back of the great hall and through a couple of lavishly appointed rooms, (rooms that were starting to look familiar after months of wandering in the castle), then rounded the next corner and there was the library. He knew though, before he’d even seen the massive shelves of books, that Crowley wasn’t there. 

He had sensed his friend’s absence before even turning the corner. But how? He wasn’t sure. He sat in his spot on the sofa and picked up a collection of Greek myths he’d started reading recently, but his eyes wandered blindly over the words on the page. After trying and failing to read the same sentence fifteen times, Aziraphale gave up and put the book aside. He decided that if Crowley wasn’t going to make an appearance, then he could at least do a little exploring. 

He left the library and wandered aimlessly through the endless hallways of the castle, not caring where his walk took him, only wanting to look around a bit. This time as he walked through room after room, he stopped and took some time to examine the beautiful jeweled lamps, the ornate rugs, the marble statues of wood nymphs and handsome stags and huntsmen astride wild, rearing horses, forever captured in cold white stone. He saw a piano in one room and rushed to sit on the stool and lift the lid that covered the black and white keys. He’d heard tell of pianos from those who traveled to far off cities, but had never had the pleasure of seeing one in person. He spent an enjoyable hour or so, tinkering with the keys, attempting to compose little melodies based on his limited knowledge of music. 

Suddenly, he felt a warm tingling on the back of his neck, and he knew, could see quite clearly in his mind’s eye that Crowley was walking towards him, down a hallway nearby. He turned in his seat on the piano stool, and sure enough, his host rounded the corner not two seconds later. He looked extremely dashing this afternoon, in a midnight blue velvet doublet with white lace spilling from the collar, and form fitting black breeches. His red hair was down and tumbled about his shoulders, and his dark shades were in place, as they almost always were. Aziraphale felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight of his friend, but soon rallied and smiled a wan, careful smile in greeting. 

“Hello Crowley,” he said, trying to hide the fact that the sight of the red haired man caused him to be suddenly a bit breathless. 

“Hello Aziraphale,” Crowley responded softly, bowing a little in greeting. He stood, near the doorway to the room, not coming in further, and it dawned on Aziraphale that perhaps he was waiting for permission to enter. Something he’d never done before. 

“Won’t you join me? I was just fiddling about with this beautiful piano, have you ever played it?”

Crowley seemed to relax at hearing Aziraphale’s words and stepped further into the room, taking a seat in an armchair a few yards away. “I have not,” he said. “I’ve never been much for music.”

“Neither have I. There was, _ is _ a court musician at manor Fell, a nice man who plays the lute. But none of us have had the pleasure of seeing a piano in person. I’ve really just been tinkering with the keys, trying to make up a tune.” He realized he was babbling a little due to his nervousness. 

Crowley didn’t seem to notice. “Is that so? I’ve never touched it. I was afraid my nails would scratch the keys,” he said, waving one of his elegant, clawed hands in the air to illustrate his point.

Aziraphale remembered Edward’s words from earlier that morning:  _ The master was in such a horrible state last night. Tossing and turning, clawed the sheets half to shreds.  _ “How are you feeling today?” He asked, unwilling to directly mention yesterday’s incident, or Crowley’s apparent rough night, but wanting to draw him out, to get him talking. 

“I feel fine. Didn’t get much sleep last night.” 

“Listen, Crowley,” Aziraphale began, wanting to gently broach the subject of what had transpired in the library before too much time had elapsed. But Crowley cut him off.

“I want to show you something,” the red haired man said, rising stiffly from his chair. “Won’t you follow me?” 

Aziraphale, slightly taken aback at the abrupt change of subject, rose obediently and followed Crowley from the room. He tried and failed to keep his eyes from roaming over Crowley’s sharp shoulders and flowing red hair and narrow waist as he walked behind him, out into the hallway. Unbidden, memories rose up of what it felt like to hold Crowley in his arms yesterday, how the stripes of smooth scales and oh so soft skin on the man’s long back had felt under the palms of his hands. He felt his face heating up, and was glad Crowley was walking in front of him so that he wouldn’t witness the fierce blush that was no doubt coloring his cheeks. 

Forcing down thoughts of Crowley’s lithe, muscular body pressed against him, he dutifully followed his host down several hallways and through a few more rooms before coming to a stop in front of a different sort of door. This was just a large, smooth, stone slab in the wall. Crowley pushed on one side of it and it swiveled on a central axis somewhere in the ceiling and swung inward. Aziraphale followed him inside and then stopped dead in his tracks, staring about him with eyes wide and mouth hanging open in surprise. 

Behind the stone door was a massive greenhouse. Plants of every description, massive palms, sharp cacti, climbing vines, and delicate bushes with star shaped leaves. Aziraphale knew precious little about plants outside of herb lore, and so he could only guess at the names of the great, wide leaves that rose far above his head. “Oh my,” he breathed, letting his eyes take in the massive profusion of green before him. “Oh Crowley,” he said. “They’re beautiful!”

“Thank you,” said Crowley, a note of pride coloring his tone as he joined Aziraphale in looking at the plants that crowded the large room. The ceiling was a vast series of glass windows to let in the light, and there was a system of pipes running up the walls that rained a fine mist of water onto sections of the great greenhouse. “I grew bored, living here alone all these years and decided to take up horticulture. Turns out, I have quite the green thumb, as they say.” He turned to Aziraphale and grinned, and Aziraphale felt his heart lurch in his chest at the sight of Crowley’s happiness, and his lovely smile (even if it was a little pointy). 

It was warm in the greenhouse, and Aziraphale took off the simple jacket he’d donned earlier that day for his ride, and loosened the cravat tied about his neck. 

“I have a large rose garden nearby, on the outskirts of the castle. The same garden your brother so rudely disrupted. But though it is beautiful in a more… understandable way, it is these great lummoxes I truly love caring for. A rose is like a beautiful person with no heart. All looks, but the thorns will prick you and make you bleed if you’re not careful. These plants however?” And here, he rattled off a series of species names that Aziraphale did not recognize before continuing, “they make me feel like I’ve really done something when they reach for the sky, when they grow stronger and taller and greener.” 

Aziraphale felt there was a deeper meaning to what Crowley was saying, that to him at least, appeared quite clear. That a person’s appearance did not always correlate with their value. That sometimes, the most beautiful people were not very impressive on the inside, and sometimes… the strangest or most unpleasant looking people could have hearts of gold.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he said, stepping a little bit closer to Crowley and gazing at his face as he spoke. “Quite often, beauty can be found in unusual places, if only we have the courage to look.” 

Crowley’s head turned and their eyes met. At least, Aziraphale thought their eyes met. It was impossible to tell through those blasted dark shades. He saw Crowley’s sharp intake of breath and saw the man swallow thickly as Aziraphale continued to gaze affectionately at him. 

“Yes, erm… you’re right,” stammered Crowley, before clearing his throat and stepping away, breaking the moment of intimacy between them as he led Aziraphale deeper into the veritable jungle before them. 

They spent an enjoyable afternoon, talking about Crowley’s plants, and how he cared for them. Aziraphale had the feeling that he’d been shown something precious. A part of Crowley he hadn’t felt comfortable revealing before, and so he listened with rapt attention and asked careful questions to keep Crowley talking. And the scarlet haired man seemed to glow a little (beneath his scales) as he gushed about the care and feeding of his green children. 

“I have to be a bit rough with some of them, or they start to take advantage,” he explained. “Sometimes, I have to threaten them and yell at them a little to let them remember who their master is.” He said this with total seriousness, and so Aziraphale stifled the giggle he felt rising inside of him at the thought of Crowley, yelling at his plants. 

Soon, it had gotten quite late, and Crowley led them out of the greenhouse and back to the door to the great hall. “I’ll leave you now,” he said, making as if to turn away. 

“Oh no! Please don’t go!” Aziraphale, before he could think, reached out and grabbed Crowley gently by the wrist. Crowley froze, and Aziraphale pulled his hand away quickly, hoping he hadn’t crossed a line. “Please stay and join me for dinner,” he said softly, looking at Crowley with what he hoped was a friendly expression, but probably looked more as if he was beseeching the man desperately for his company. 

“Only if you truly wish it,” replied Crowley, his voice gone gruff, looking down at his feet. 

“Of course I wish it, Crowley. I, l-love spending time with you.” Aziraphale winced at how his tongue had tripped over the word  _ love _ . It was a strong word, one he’d never used in relation to Crowley before.  _ Fond, affectionate, kind,  _ yes, but never  _ love _ , never ‘I  _ love _ spending time with you’. 

Crowley’s face darkened in what Aziraphale was starting to recognize as his own special sort of blush. “Alright then. If you insist,” he said, his voice going whispery and low. 

“I do,” said Aziraphale. “But only on one condition,” he mentally steeled himself for what he was about to ask, feeling his palms go sweaty.

“What is it?” Asked Crowley, clearly curious. 

“If we make sure to light only half the candles, and… and if we extinguish a few of the torches in the great hall, do you think perhaps… you could… remove your shades. I do so like your eyes. They’re quite pretty.” 

Crowley’s grin was slow and cautious, but no less lovely for how hesitantly it bloomed across his face. “Alright.” he replied softly. “That could be arranged.” 

“Good.” Aziraphale nodded and then without waiting for Crowley to say anything further, he opened the door and bowed. “After you, Prince Crowley.” 


	11. Chapter 11

Crowley bowed in return, grinning sardonically over the title Aziraphale had bestowed upon him, and stepped into the great hall. They sat, this time with Crowley in the seat immediately to Aziraphel’s right, instead of two seats away like usual, and Aziraphale filled up a plate with all sorts of delicious foods. Tonight’s menu included a baked rice dish with shrimp the size of the palm of his hand, along with piles of buttered, steamed spinach and an egg pastry, with a thick, flaky crust, covered with a sharp, salty cheese. Aziraphale poured himself and Crowley a glass of wine, and then happily tucked in. 

“Would you pass me a slice of that egg pastry please?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale’s fork froze on its way to his mouth. He recovered quickly, however, covering for his shock by coughing into his napkin, before passing the pie tin holding the pastry over to Crowley. He watched, out of the corner of his eye as Crowley carefully selected a slice of the pastry and put it on the plate in front of him. He then picked up his fork and lifted a small bite to his mouth. Aziraphale looked down at his own plate, heart pounding a little, in order to give Crowley privacy, but soon, he heard the unmistakable sounds of chewing. 

“Mmm. This is quite good. You should try it if you haven’t already,” Crowley said carefully, around his mouthful of pastry. 

Aziraphale tried to hide a massive smile that was battling its way onto his face, despite his best efforts to suppress it.  _ Crowley was eating! In front of him! _

“Ehem, yes. I shall try it right away,” he responded, before spearing a large chunk of pastry with his fork and shoving it into his mouth, using the bite of fluffy egg, gooey cheese and crisp crust to busy himself and to keep him from whooping with joy over this shared experience he’d never thought Crowley would let him see. 

They continued to eat together for a while in silence. Crowley taking very careful bites of his pastry and chewing slowly, Aziraphale eating with the enthusiastic gusto he always employed at the dinner table. When the meal was over, Aziraphale leaned back in his chair and took a long sip of his wine, casting shy, furtive glances at Crowley, enjoying the sight of his flashing yellow eyes as his dinner companion sat back in his own chair, seeming relaxed and happy. 

“Crowley,” he began again, hoping to broach the subject of yesterday afternoon’s happening on the sofa. 

Crowley seemed to have a preternatural skill for recognizing when Aziraphale was about to ask something uncomfortable, for he spoke up again, interrupting Aziraphale, again before he could continue. “You must miss your family dearly,” he said. 

Aziraphale flinched, as if struck in the face, the feeling of sadness and homesickness he usually kept at bay, rushing to the surface. To his great embarrassment, he felt tears leap to his eyes and spill down his cheeks. “Yes… yes I do,” he whispered, “very much.”

“I know you do,” Crowley’s voice was instantly soft and gentle, caring. He sensed Aziraphale’s pain and made room for it between them, and for that, Aziraphale was grateful. He couldn’t bear it if Crowley had responded with glibness or dismissiveness to his grief. 

  
“I know you miss them, and I have been meaning to show you something that will hopefully ease some of your pain a little,” Crowley continued, placing his hand on the table, near to where Aziraphale’s hand rested, close, but not touching. 

“I’d hoped you’d… let me visit them. Just for a little while,” Aziraphale continued, unable to look at Crowley. 

“I cannot,” Crowley replied, sounding dismayed by having to deny Aziraphale’s request, but still, Aziraphale felt a stab of bitter resentment lance through him at the rejection. 

“But why not Crowley?” he asked, finally finding the strength to look his host, his beloved jailer in the eyes. 

“I can’t explain Aziraphale, but if you leave me, I will surely die,” he said

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open in shock. “But, how can that be?” he asked, disbelieving. “You were fine before I arrived, and you’ll be fine when I leave. It would only be for a little while. Just a couple of days, to see Anathema, to... check on the children,” his voice broke on Anathema’s name and the word ‘children’ came out as a sob. He knew he sounded as if he were begging, but he couldn’t stand the thought of never seeing his loved ones again. 

“As I said, I can’t explain, but… if you’ll let me, I’d like to show you something to help you feel better,” he said cryptically. Aziraphale could hear the pain in his voice, the pain of denying Aziraphale what he wanted. 

He dabbed at his tear stained face with his napkin, nodded his head and rose to follow Crowley from the great hall. After a few twists and turns, they arrived at a set of rooms Aziraphale had never seen before. “These are my quarters,” Crowley explained, before pushing the door open and leading Aziraphale inside

Aziraphale paused briefly on the threshold, shy about entering. He’d never seen Crowley’s rooms, had never been asked to come to them. He mused that there was one reason a person usually invited another to their rooms and Crowley was clearly not comfortable with that idea, if the way he’d fled when waking up in Aziraphale’s arms was any indication. So this invitation must be for some other purpose. Still, it felt like a private thing, an inner sanctum, and Aziraphale was being welcomed inside for the first time. Crowley was showing him yet another hidden part of himself, and Aziraphale felt honored. 

He followed Crowley through the door and into a spacious bedchamber. Crowley’s bed was covered in black silk sheets and a thick, black woolen blanket. It looked freshly made, but then again, Crowley had Jonathan and Isabel at his beck and call didn’t he? The room was spotless, and his servants clearly did a good job of upkeeping the place. As if hearing Aziraphale’s thoughts, a pair of voices struck up a hushed conversation over in a corner of Crowley’s bedroom. 

“Bringing him to bed, are we sire?” this from a saucy female voice

“Shhhh! Don’t say such things. Even if he can’t hear you, it’s not polite,” this from a man with a foppish tone to his whispered complaint, clearly scandalized. 

“Polite.. Psshaw! The master could do with a good shag and you know it,” the female voice again,  _ it must be Isabel _ , Aziraphale thought. He carefully schooled his features so that he gave no indication that he’d heard them. A quick, embarrassed look in Crowley’s direction showed that his host was also giving no indication that he was aware they were being discussed in such a lascivious and personal manner. 

“Don’t be crude,” this from Jonathan.

“Don’t be prudish,” replied Isabel

Aziraphale felt himself flushing with heat at the thought of “shagging” Crowley. Did they know that he’d taken to thinking of just that very thing lately? Or was it an educated guess? 

The only indication Crowley gave that he’d heard their exchange was a belabored sigh and a sharp look to the corner of the room from where the voices emmenated as he led Aziraphale past the bedroom and through a short hallway. 

“Apparently, no such luck…” he heard Isabel’s sarcastic jibe as they left the two behind and moved into the next room, and he almost giggled at her irreverent manner. It spoke well of Crowley if he allowed his servants to make such harmless jokes. As if they were also his friends. A less patient or kind hearted master would never allow such fun tomfoolery from those in his employ. 

The next room they entered was clearly not used very often, though it was adequately lit by torches set in sconces in the walls. White sheets, gone gray with accumulated dust were draped over large lumps that were clearly pieces of furniture. Tall chairs, sets of drawers, divans. 

In the center of the room stood two tables. On one was a round mirror, face up. On the other sat a glass case enclosing a beautiful red rose. The floor of the glass enclosure was littered with red petals in different states of decay, and the rose itself only had a few petals left, clinging to the stem. Crowley ignored the rose, which floated peacefully under the glass display case, as if held there by invisible hands, and walked instead to the table with the mirror. 

Only it wasn’t a mirror was it? Rather than the hard, imobile reflection of a mirror, the surface of it rippled like a pool of water, set inside an ornate, gilded frame. Only it sat flat, atop a relatively thin table. There shouldn’t have been enough depth for a pool of water to collect on top of the table, but ripples flickered across the surface nonetheless. What was even stranger, it had no reflection. Aziraphale had expected to look down into the pool to see his own face, and Crowley’s reflected back at him, but all he could see were silver ripples and a low, throbbing light in the center of the pool. 

“What is this?” he asked, his voice softening in wonder as he turned inquisitive eyes to Crowley’s face. 

“It is a scrying pool. A way to see things far away from us.” Here Crowley paused, and his gleaming yellow eyes searched Aziraphale’s face, his expression unreadable. “It’s a way for you to see your family.” 

Aziraphale blinked, feeling his mouth fall open in surprise at Crowley’s words. “Truly? Can I hear them? Can I speak to them as well?” he felt suddenly hungry for connection. Greedy to see the faces of those he’d held so dear. 

“Sadly no,” Crowley replied. “You can only see them. They can’t see you, and sound does not travel through the pool. But you can look in on whomever you wish to see. It is the least I can do for you,” and from the sadness in his voice, Aziraphale could tell that Crowley truly regretted being unable to give Aziraphale more. 

“Very well then,” Aziraphale replied, feeling his pulse begin to race at the thought of seeing Anathema, Tracy, Deirdre and Arthur and the children again. He turned to Crowley, with his eyes alight with hope. “Please show me my friend, Madam Tracy.”

Crowley chuckled gently. “You may ask the pool directly, as it’s power has nothing to do with me.” 

“Oh,” replied Aziraphale, feeling a little silly. He leaned over the pool, still unsettled that it did not show him his own reflection, and spoke again. “Please show me Madam Tracy,” he said. 

There was a dark swirling in the depths of the pool, light and shadow mixing and slowly resolving itself into the image of a grassy hillside. Aziraphale moaned in dread as he recognized the trees and bushes that adorned Tadfield cemetery. And there, just as he’d feared, was a gravestone with the word ‘Tracy’ engraved upon it.

“No,” he whispered, feeling tears come to his eyes. “No, it can’t be. She can’t be dead.” 

“I’m so sorry Aziraphale,” Crowley’s soft voice sounded like it was coming from far away. Aziraphale felt a great sob constrict his chest as the tears crested his overlaiden lids and fell down his cheeks. 

“She… she was like a m-mother to me,” he sobbed, feeling the world tilt around him as the realization that his dear friend and teacher had passed on. 

And then Crowley was there, pulling Aziraphale into his arms and hugging him fiercely. Aziraphale let himself be held, and sobbed, taking comfort in the feel of Crowley slender arms wrapped tightly around his waist. The floral scent of Crowley’s soft hair filling his nose as Crowley pressed the side of his face to Aziraphale’s and rocked him gently as he cried. Aziraphale wound his arms around Crowley’s neck and hugged him back, as tightly as he dared.

“There now,” Crowley said softly, reaching up to rub reassuring circles into Aziraphale’s back with the palm of his hand. “I’m so sorry Aziraphale. So sorry,” he said, his voice soft and caring in a way that only made Aziraphale cry harder. Still, it felt wonderful to be held this way. To have Crowley back in his arms. It made him realize how very much he’d been longing for more touch, more connection with the man (no, not beast, but  _ man _ ), who’d become his dearest friend over the past several months since he came to the castle. In the fierce protectiveness of Crowley’s embrace, in the gentle tone of his voice, Aziraphale could feel how much Crowley cared for him. He could feel Crowley’s love for him shining through. 

_ Love _ ?  _ Yes, he loves you,  _ came the thought like a bolt of lightning through his grief addled brain.

Still reeling a bit from the realization that Crowley loved him, Aziraphale gently disengaged himself from his friend’s embrace.

“Thank you,” he said with a sniffle. “She was quite elderly when I left, so no doubt some accident or disease befell her. I just… I foolishly believed she’d live forever.” He was suddenly gripped with a fierce urge to see Anathema, to ensure himself that she was alright. 

He leaned back over the scrying pool and made his request again. “Show me my niece, Anathema,” he commanded, feeling a coil of fear twist inside his belly at the thought that something bad could have befallen his beloved niece, the daughter of his heart. 

The pool shifted again, and this time, what it showed him was both surprising and wonderful. Anathema, in labor. She was in bed, her pregnant belly large and round under a white sheet. At her side clutching her hand tightly and gazing at her with his eyes filled with love was a handsome, slender young man with curling brown hair. The father, Aziraphale assumed. And yes, he could make out gold wedding bands on both of their fingers where they were interlaced.

“Oh! Oh my! She’s having a baby!” Aziraphale exclaimed joyfully, clapping his hands, turning to look at Crowley with a broad smile through his recent tears. “Oh my! I’m ever so happy she finally met a nice young man, and it appears I shall soon be a great uncle again!”

Crowley smiled warmly back at him, his yellow eyes gleaming, and again Aziraphale was struck by a strong feeling of affection. A deep caring for the beautiful man at his side. He looked back eagerly into the pool, hoping to witness the birth of his new grand-niece or nephew, as he’d witnessed many a Tadfield birth, but something wasn’t quite right. Anathema’s face, at first showing the natural strain of childbirth, was now stretched in a rictus of agony. Her husband was shouting soundlessly to someone outside of the scope of the scrying pool, and Aziraphale could plainly see panic written across his features. 

“Something’s wrong,” whispered Aziraphale, feeling his skin go cold and his heart start to pound. As he spoke, a red stain began to spread across the white sheet where it covered Anathema’s nether regions and Aziraphale gasped in horror. “There’s been a complication,” he said, turning to clutch the material at the front of Crowley’s dark doublet in his hands. “She’s in danger, and, and… there’s no one there to help her. Madam Tracy, Anathema and myself, we were the only midwives in Tadfield, and Madam Tracy is gone… and so am I! Oh Crowley! You must let me go to her! She could lose her baby! She could lose her life in the process!” 

Crowley’s face was full of conflicting emotion. Fear flickered behind his eyes, but also anguish had crept across his features, tightening his jaw and pressing his mouth into a thin line. He looked like a man waiting for the gallows. Aziraphale couldn’t even process what he saw in Crowley’s face, so frantic was he to get to Anathema. 

“Please… Please Crowley,” he begged, his voice a tremulous whisper, his hands tightening in the material of Crowley’s doublet. “I beg of you. If you... love me… and I fully believe that you do, then you’ll let me go to her. You’ll let me save her. Please Crowley,  _ please _ !” 

Crowley’s eyes filled with tears. It was a thing Aziraphale had never seen before, and that fact washed through his fear filled brain and was immediately filed away as something he’d have to think about  _ later _ , after Anathema and her baby were saved. And so he was too mad with anguish to fully comprehend the gravity of seeing his stoic friend with tears running down his dark, scaled cheeks. 

__

“You are correct, Aziraphale,” Crowley took Aziraphale’s hands from where they still clutched at his doublet, pulling them free and holding them in his own. “I  _ do _ love you. Dearly. And so, I can’t deny you this request.” He must have seen the flood of relief that cascaded across Aziraphale’s features, for he rushed to add, “Please my darling angel, please don’t leave me for longer than two days. All I can give you is two days, for the rose is losing its petals. Soon, the last one will fall, and then I’ll be done for. I can’t live without you. Please promise to return to me.”

Aziraphale was frantic with fear for Anathema’s safety, and so he barely heard Crowley’s words. He nodded enthusiastically, feeling a manic smile bloom on his face as he pulled Crowley’s hands to his lips and kissed them fiercely. “Thank you my dearest Crowley. Thank you, thank you! I’ll be back in two days time! I promise. And I’ll never leave you again.” 

He didn’t bother to ask about the cryptic mention of the rose. He didn’t bother to worry too much about Crowley’s safety. He could see no reason for Crowley’s life to be in danger if he were to stay away. The man had lived for one hundred and twenty years and was as spry and vibrant as a person ten years younger than Aziraphale. In his mind, Crowley was only expressing his sadness over Aziraphale leaving for a mere forty eight hours. He knew Crowley would be dreadfully lonely if Aziraphale didn’t return. That he’d mourn Aziraphale’s loss, but since Aziraphale fully intended to return within two days, his companion would not have to languish long. 

“I need to leave right now!” Aziraphale suddenly realized, shaking himself out of his brief worries for Crowley’s emotional well being in his absence. 

“Yes. Have no fear angel, I’ll make sure you get to Tadfield far, far faster than mere travel by horseback should normally allow. You'll be there within the hour. You only have to saddle up Hazel and ride away from my lands, and I will take care of the rest.” He sounded sad, his voice rough and whispery as it got when Crowley was feeling strong emotion. Aziraphale felt a twinge of concern echo across the edges of his mind, at the sound, but he dismissed it in favor of kissing Crowley’s hands once more, hoping his fierce press of lips to Crowley’s smooth-scaled knuckles adequately expressed his gratitude for being allowed to go. 

Then, just before he turned to leave, he remembered something. His hand shot down to the pocket in his tunic. He wore his tartan tunic from home almost constantly, as it reminded him of those he loved, and his old life, and also because he couldn’t bring himself to don the beautifully tailored, finely made doublets and tunics and waistcoats provided by Crowley’s servants. Inside the pocket of his tunic still sat the bundle Tracy had pressed into his hands when they parted. Luckily, the servant who did his washing (he assumed Katherine,) had kept placing the small package back into his pocket. He’d opened it one day, soon after arriving to see a large red ruby. He was completely unaware of what power it might possess, but it was something. He couldn’t help but think of Crowley’s dire words, that he’d die if Aziraphale did not return, and about the rose petals falling being a harbinger of Crowley’s demise. They were strong words, and Aziraphale didn’t like the sound of them. 

He hastily unwrapped the large ruby stone that gleamed dully in the torchlight coming off the walls of the room. “Here,” he said, pressing the stone into Crowley’s palm and squeezing his fingers closed around it with his hand over Crowley’s. “Madam Tracy said that this could be used to call for help in times of dire need. If you need anything, or if anything … god forbid...bad… happens while I’m away, this will hopefully help to keep you safe until I return.”

“Aziraphale, I can’t-” Crowley started to protest, but Aziraphale cut him off before he could continue. 

“Shhh. I won’t hear of it.” Aziraphale insisted. “Take it and use it should the need arise. You’re a man of magic. You’ll surely know what to do.” 

And with that, he gazed briefly at Crowley’s face, trying not to see the deep sadness echoing in his friend’s yellow eyes, and turned towards the door. 

He rushed from Crowley’s rooms, and blessedly, the castle’s magic complied with his need, and he soon came upon the door to the great hall and to the stables beyond. Hazel greeted him impatiently, stamping her feet, as if she knew that there was an urgent situation afoot that required her help. Aziraphale spoke kind words to her as he saddled her up, patting her neck and making soothing noises. He mounted and rode out of the stables and off towards the great gates at the edges of Crowley’s lands at a canter. Soon, he could see the massive silver gates rising before him, and then they were swinging open silently, to let him and Hazel through. And then he was away, out in the world again, away from Crowley’s castle, riding away from Crowley for the first time in almost a year. 

It felt strange to be leaving the castle. Uplifting in a sense, and painful too. He pushed the painful part, the part where he felt his connection to Crowley grow thinner and more tenuous as he rode away, down inside him and focused all his energy instead on spurring Hazel to run faster, and faster still. He  _ had  _ to make it to Anathema’s side. Had to save her. Nothing else mattered. 

He barely noticed as the now familiar fog rose up to surround him and his horse. He now knew it was a way to aid in swift travel. A sort of conveyance that would get him to Tadfield in far shorter a time than normal travel would. He closed his eyes briefly and sent up a fervent prayer that he would not be too late. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst from our poor snek boy.

Crowley watched Aziraphale leave his quarters and then stumbled back into an armchair near the scrying table, feeling as if all the strength and hope had left his body, following his dear friend out the door. 

He still clutched the ruby Aziraphale had given him in his fist. It was the only part of Aziraphale he still possessed. If the sweet, kind eyed man he loved never returned, then this ruby, this strange amulet would be the only real souvenir he had of their time together. He silently cursed his beloved servants for their relentless efficiency with washing clothes and bedsheets daily, for it meant he could not even bury his face in Aziraphale’s pillow and smell his scent lingering there. 

Crowley knew that he had fallen madly in love with Aziraphale. Had fallen helplessly into the deep, blue-gray pools of his friends soulful, lovely eyes. His heart was full of profound affection for Aziraphale, and his mind was plagued with images of Aziraphale’s soft lips, his bright smile, his kind eyes and strong shoulders. Never in his bombastic youth had he loved another man this way. He’d had brief dalliances with other lads, as capricious and fickle as he was, had lain with them for a night or two until they parted ways. The brief flashes of lust and thin veneer of affection he’d felt for those young men in his youth were nothing compared to the conflagration of lust and yearning love that burned inside him for Aziraphale. 

Crowley wanted Aziraphale in every way it was possible to want another person. He wanted to taste every inch of his skin, to run his fingers through Aziraphale’s wild, soft hair. He wanted to wrap Aziraphale up in his arms and hold him tight, to draw gasps of pleasure from his lovely mouth. But more than simple lust, Crowley longed to shelter and care for Aziraphale. To talk to him for hours upon hours, to share all the secret parts of Crowley’s life with him. 

And now his love had run away. 

Crowley cast worried eyes towards the rose on the table nearby. Only a few petals remained. He hoped they would last for at least a couple of days. Long enough for Aziraphale to return. Once the final petal fell, Crowley would be trapped forever in the form of the serpent. Unable to hold Aziraphale in his arms. Unable to kiss Aziraphale, or make love to him. Unable even to sit with him and share a meal. The thought of Aziraphale witnessing him swallow his food whole made Crowley sick to his stomach. 

If Aziraphale did not return and tell Crowley that he loved him, did not bestow upon him true love’s kiss, then Crowley would forever be the serpent, and he would have no choice but to hurl himself into the fire, or onto a sharp blade and end his life. That way, even if Aziraphale did return, and felt nothing but friendship for Crowley, he would be allowed to leave and go back to his family. Crowley could not bear the thought of keeping Aziraphale here, with only a massive serpent for company for the rest of his days. And he was certain, that once he was dead and gone, that the curse would fall away. The magic would dissipate, and perhaps his servants would be allowed to go free, to inhabit their human forms again after so many decades of dedicated service. 

The prophecy had become clear to Crowley only a few days ago. He’d walked into the library where his guest had been sitting on the sofa, reading a book, and the sight of Aziraphale had made him stop in his tracks. A ray of warm afternoon sunlight had set the man’s pale, white-blond hair aflame like a golden halo. When he’d turned to look at Crowley with those expressive eyes, his beautiful face wreathed in light from the undraped window behind his head, a thought, ringing clear as a bell, had drifted through Crowley’s mind. 

_ He looks just like an angel _

_ An angel _

And the words to the prophecy had leapt to his mind.  _ Ten times nine years shall pass, and an angel shall alite and take thee out of thy curse. _

Aziraphale was his angel. That much was clear now. And if only Aziraphale loved him back the way he so ardently loved his kind-eyed friend, he would be freed forever from his curse. 

But though Aziraphale looked at him with affection, and seemed very much to enjoy Crowley’s company, Crowley could not sense a deeper level of want in the other man’s words and deeds. He was so damnably polite that it was impossible to tell if Aziraphale returned his feelings. 

Crowley squeezed the ruby in this fist a little tighter and sighed deeply. He could not bring himself to move from this chair until Aziraphale returned.  _ If  _ he returned. He focused all of his energy on ensuring that Hazel’s hooves covered far more ground than any horse’s should, knowing that every second counted in Aziraphale’s race to Anathema’s side. If Aziraphale’s beloved niece and her child died in labor, he knew Aziraphale’s heart would be irreparably broken, and that thought was intolerable to Crowley. He closed his eyes and sent his magics out to the farthest reaches of his power, pushing man and horse closer to their destination with a good bit of what remained of his strength. 

“Hurry up my darling angel,” he whispered to the empty room. “Hurry up and save them, and return home to me again.” 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of childbirth stuff and blood in this chapter

Aziraphale barely thought of anything but Anathema as he and Hazel raced through the fog for home.  _ Home _ , the very thought of it made his breath catch in his throat. He had missed his children so much. For that’s what they were,  _ his children. _ He’d raised and cared for them, had ushered several of them into this world, and had been there for them, in many cases more than their biological parents. He missed Tracy too, and let himself cry freely with grief for her loss, tears that flew sideways into his ears from the wind rushing past his face as Hazel galloped through the mist. He’d never even been able to say goodby to her. 

He’d been traveling for only three quarters of an hour, when the mist began to slowly recede, revealing familiar stands of trees and the walls of houses on the outskirts of Tadfield proper. He now knew his way. It was only a few minutes ride to the manor house. He spurred Hazel on, mentally promising her all the oats her heart desired if she would only get him to Anathema on time. 

A few minutes later, he was riding into the courtyard, leaping from Hazel’s back, not bothering to stable her or remove her saddle. There simply wasn’t time. 

He rushed to Anathema’s rooms and had to elbow his way through several ladies in waiting and chambermaids who were standing around, wringing their hands and weeping. He ignored their cries of shock at seeing Aziraphale among their midst, and made his way immediately to Anathema’s side, feeling his heart clench painfully at the sight of her. A chambermaid with hands stained red from trying to press a soaked rag at the junction of Anathema’s legs, stepped back as Aziraphale approached. The poor girl looked like she was on the verge of fainting from fear.

Anathema was frightfully and pale looking, her nut brown skin gone white as the sheets that draped her body. Her brow drenched in sweat, her eyes closed, and her breathing shallow. The sheet covering her lap was dark with a deep red stain. Blood. Aziraphale felt the ice of sudden dread rush through his veins at the sight of his beloved Anathema, so clearly struggling at death’s door. Her husband looked up when Aziraphale approached, confusion and hope mixing equally in his anguished eyes. “Who.. who are you sir?” he asked, confused. 

“I’m her uncle, Aziraphale, and I am an experienced midwife,” Aziraphale explained. “Nice to meet you. Now if you’d please go to that wooden chest in the corner and get me the bag of herbs inside it, that would be very good.”

Before the young man could reply, Aziraphale had turned to a nearby chambermaid, “Boil some water and fetch me some fresh linens, right now!” he yelled, hoping to shake the poor girl out of her shock at seeing Aziraphale again and get her moving. And move she did. She jumped, then ran off to go boil water. 

Aziraphale grabbed the bag full of dried herbs that Anathema’s husband had pressed into his hands with a grateful nod. “And what is your name my dear?” he asked, hoping to calm the man’s obvious panic. 

“N-Newt,” stammered the man, his eyes round as they flicked between Aziraphale and his pale, unconscious wife on the bed. “Please sir, please help her.” 

“That’s precisely why I’m here Newt darling. So if you would, please back off a bit and let me have a look?” He gently pushed Newt away and lifted the soaked, scarlet sheet away from Anathema’s lower body. What he saw made his stomach turn with a sickening twist. There was tearing, and after some careful probing with his fingertips against her belly, he could ascertain that the baby was clearly breech. Turned sideways and unable to exit the birth canal. There was so much blood. He suppressed a wave of panic and dropped the sheet, getting to his feet and stumbling over to a basin in the corner. He scrubbed his hands thoroughly with soap and washed them off the best he could, drying them on the clean linens a chambermaid had just come in with. 

He returned to Anathema’s bedside just as another chambermaid, Annalee, if his memory served, brought him a steaming tea kettle full of boiling water. “Here,” he beckoned her over with an impatient wave of his hand. “Fill this bowl with hot water please.” As she did so, he pulled a large bunch of dried herbs, known for their numbing and disinfecting properties and crumbled them into the water, using a wooden spoon to stir them until they’d become a sort of tea. “Have her drink some of this,” he told Newt, pressing the bowl into his hands. 

He immediately went to Anathema, propping her head in his hand and pressing the bowl of tea to her lips as he did so, urging her softly to drink. She regained consciousness for a moment, her dark eyes swimming as they focused. She stirred weakly, and Aziraphale was pleased to see her take a few sips of the tea. “Hello there my darling,” he said, taking just a minute to stand and let her see him.    
  
“Uncle Zira?” she said weakly, dreamily, as if not believing her eyes. “Oh uncle Zira. You’re home,” she breathed, then promptly passed out again, going limp in Newt’s arms. 

Aziraphale took the bowl of herb tea from Newt and now that it had cooled somewhat, proceeded to pour most of the fragrant liquid liberally over Anathema’s raw, bloody wound. He said a quick prayer of thanks that she was unconscious, for it would be very painful had she been awake. The potion helped to disinfect and numb the area. He pulled away the bloody sheet and replaced it with a fresh one, being sure to shield her nudity from the eyes of the servants. Reaching under the sheet, he carefully began pressing on her belly, using deft hands to turn the baby so that its head facing down, as it should have from the beginning. It was slow work, and exhausting. He had to press very gently, in just the right places to move the baby without harming either of them. Sweat beaded at his hairline and trickled down the sides of his face, and rivulates of it tickled its way down his back. 

“Newt dear, please would you wipe my brow so that I don’t get sweat in my eyes?” he asked of his new nephew in law. Newt hurried to comply, and Aziraphale was impressed with his ability to stay calm under pressure. He was clearly a very loving and caring man, the pain in his eyes at his wife’s failing health told Aziraphale all he needed to know about Newt’s character and his love for Anathema. 

“Thank you my dear,” he said gratefully, giving Newt a stiff smile by way of reassuring him, before going back to his careful task. Luckily, it appeared that her bleeding had stopped, and he was making good headway with the moving of the baby inside her belly. In what was probably another quarter of an hour, but what felt like an endless eternity, he finally had the baby’s head in position. 

“Newt, will you try and wake her again?” He asked. “We’ll need her to push if she’s able to.”

Newt obediently kissed Anathema’s brow and whispered into her ear and her eyes fluttered open. 

“Hello again my darling,” Aziraphale greeted her from his place at the end of the bed, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’ve got everything sorted down here, and, I’m sorry to ask you this dearheart, but would you be able to push a little?”

“Oh uncle Zira,” Anathema said, her voice reedy and weak but full of hope. “If I must. I’d really rather our reunion had been under more comfortable circumstances.” She smiled wanly. Then she screwed up her face with effort and did her best to push, letting out a low moan of pain that had Aziraphale flinching in sympathy.

“That’s it my dear. That’s it.” He could feel the baby’s head crowning between her legs and he felt hope leap inside his chest. “Just a couple more like that my dear and we’ll be all set.” 

Anathema pushed again, this time screaming in pain. Newt clutched her hand with white knuckles and smoothed her sweat soaked hair out of her face. 

Aziraphale felt the baby’s head fall into his waiting hands, followed by the rest of it’s slippery, hot body and sighed in relief. “There we are,” he cooed. “The baby is out!” he informed the young couple. “Just one more push for the afterbirth dearest, and then you’re all done.”

Anathema complied, grimacing in pain. After checking to be sure the afterbirth was whole, soon Aziraphale cut the umbilical cord with a knife provided to him by an attentive chambermaid. He then swaddled the baby, a boy, in a clean sheet. 

A gentle pat on his tiny back and he heard a tremulous cry from the baby, who screwed up his face and started to wail in earnest. “Nothing wrong with his lungs,” Aziraphale said fondly as he wrapped the little bundle up in the clean sheet and placed him in Newt’s arms, being that Anathema had immediately lost consciousness after the delivery was over. While Newt split his attention between his sleeping wife and his new baby, Aziraphale set to work with needle and thread, closing up the tear that had threatened to take Anathema’s life. He disinfected the area further with more of the herbal mixture and bandaged her with a pad of clean linen before washing his hands in a basin of fresh hot water filled by the chambermaid Annalee. 

“You’ll need to keep feeding her tea and broth for a while so she’ll get her strength back,” he informed Newt, who was having trouble tearing his eyes away from his new son’s red, scrunched up face long enough to acknowledge that he’d heard Aziraphale speak. He nodded absently before leaning down to kiss Anathema’s brow for probably the tenth time in the past five minutes. Aziraphale smiled warmly at Newt.

“She’s to stay in bed for the next two weeks, no exceptions,” he said sternly, knowing full well that she’d try to get up and around the minute she felt better. Newt nodded gravely, clearly preparing himself for a few small skirmishes in his future over keeping his ambitious, adventurous wife in bed, when she wouldn’t want to stay there.

“As soon as she’s up for it, she should feed the little one.” he said to Newt. But, if she’s too weak, please find a wet nurse as soon as you can. First, though, he should be cleaned up,” he turned again to Annalee, “would you please wash the baby and return him to his parents so that his mother can feed him?”

“Yes m’lord,” she replied with a half-curtsey and bent to gently take the baby from his father, who was endearingly reluctant to let him go. 

Aziraphale said one last fond farewell to his sleeping niece, pleased to see some color already returning to her cheeks, before heading to his own rooms. The manor servants had thankfully left his rooms exactly as they had been when he’d departed for Crowley’s castle. He’d half expected Gabriel would have moved one of the children in there, or used it for storage, but no, his bed and his chest of drawers and his books were all still there, right as he’d left them. 

He washed briefly in the basin of warm water some thoughtful servant had thought to bring him when he’d arrived, and then fell into bed and into a deep, exhausted slumber. 


	14. Chapter 14

Aziraphale awoke from a lovely dream of holding Crowley in his arms on the sofa in the library. He’d been placing gentle, tender kisses to the scaled side of Crowley’s cheek, working his way towards the man’s soft lips, fully intending to kiss him there, when the cock crowed out on the courtyard wall. He’d jerked awake, flushed and aroused, thoughts of Crowley’s unusual face and lovely mouth dancing behind his eyes. 

He missed Crowley already, and his subconscious mind was happily supplying him with sweet, tantalizing fantasies of holding Crowley, of kissing him, being close as they’d once been. And yet, he could not suppress the pure flash of joy he felt to wake to the sight of his own familiar bedroom ceiling. To see the light spilling in through the drapes and playing over the shelves of his small library of books in all the old familiar patterns he’d grown used to since taking these rooms as a young man.. He’d once thought his collection rather grand, that was, until he’d seen Crowley’s library. 

He spent an awkward morning, adjusting to the lack of Katherine, Tristan and Edward fulfilling his every wish. No hot breakfast awaited him when he awoke. No clothes had been laid out for him. The basin of water left in his rooms last night was now icy cold in the chill, early spring air, and no fire had magically jumped to life in his dark hearth. 

Still, he was beyond glad to be home. It took him a few times almost walking into closed doors before he grew accustomed to them not opening as he approached.  _ My, _ he thought ruefully,  _ how spoiled I am. _ He chided himself gently over how soft and kept he’d become in Crowley’s care, and resolved to ask the servants to allow him to open his own doors and make his own fire, lay out his own clothing when he returned.  _ When I return, _ he thought. He knew he’d go back to Crowley. He longed to return to him in fact, but it was such a blessing to have this time to see his family that he swiftly pushed thoughts of his flame haired companion from his mind. 

He went quickly to Anathema’s room, only to find her asleep, looking wan but much better than the day before, with the faint blush of her normal, dusky complexion replacing the ghostly pale white she’d been yesterday. He gently stroked her hair, careful not to wake her, and went in search of Newt. He encountered the lad, obviously returning from the kitchens, balancing a plate of food and a mug of what smelled like chicken broth in his hands. 

“Ah, I see you went to get breakfast,” Aziraphale remarked with a warm smile. 

“Yes, yes I did. Oh uncle Zira, I can’t thank you enough for saving my Ana. I thought she and the baby were done for.” The young man looked as if he sorely wanted to embrace Aziraphale, but remembered that his hands were full of food and broth, so he took an awkward step towards Aziraphale and then away again instead. 

“She’s lucky to have you my dear,” Aziraphale reached up and squeezed Newt companionably on the shoulder, making a mental note to hug his new nephew in law properly when he was free of cups and dishes. “Now I shall go see about getting myself some breakfast as well. Would it be alright if I stopped back in afterwards?”

“Of course uncle Zira. Of course! Please do!” Newt enthused as he sidled past Aziraphale in the hallway and stepped into his and Anathema’s rooms. 

Azirpahale went on his way down to the great hall, mentally bracing himself for a reunion with those he loved, and with those he decidedly did not. 

The moment he stepped into the hall, he was set upon by a hoard of screeching children, who rushed to him and wrapped their arms and legs around him like small leeches. “Uncle Zira! Uncle Zira!” they cried in unison. He found his arms and legs immediately weighed down by several small warm bodies, and tried his best to bestow hugs and kisses and fond pats on as many children as he could reach. Thomas was particularly hard to pry away from where he’d latched onto Aziraphale’s bicep, and he had to promise to read his great nephew stories and let him sit in his lap while he ate in order to broker his release. 

Behind the children, his brothers, Gabriel, Uriel and Sandalphon were standing awkwardly, awaiting their turn to say hello. Gabriel was clearly struggling to suppress a bitter glower from darkening his features and failing miserably. Poor Gabriel, he’d thought he’d gotten rid of his strange, scene stealing brother once and for all, and here was Aziraphale, back again. 

He gently disengaged from the small crowd of children who surrounded him and walked over to his dumbfounded brothers. He clasped their hands warmly and gave them friendly greetings, not wanting to let his resentment of them show on the surface, and, truth be told, he’d even missed them a little. Their ribald jokes and loud bragging about their hunting conquests were a bit entertaining if he were honest. Except Gabriel. He didn’t think any amount of time away from his stone faced, flinty eyed brother would make him long for Gabriel’s company. He ignored Gabriel’s clenched jaw and grim set to his mouth as he shook his hand. 

His sister Michael appeared and gave him what felt like an actual, genuinely warm hug, before holding him at arm's length and looking up into his eyes with fondness. A fondness he’d never seen before. 

“Thank you, brother dear for saving my Anathema’s life, and the life of my grandchild. I can’t ever repay you, but know that you have my eternal gratitude.” 

Aziraphale, taken aback by this rare display of affection, could only smile and nod. He happily let himself be led to the table, where a hefty plate of eggs and fried potatoes was placed in front of him, along with a glass of fresh milk. The food was more plain, less expertly seasoned than the fantastic food in Crowley’s castle, but to Aziraphale, it couldn’t have tasted better. He was  _ home, _ at last, and despite the lukewarm welcome from his pigheaded brothers, and the barely contained resentment from Gabriel, he felt the love and affection glowing from his children and grandchildren and great grandchildren, and even his sister, who was smiling stiffly but warmly at him from across the table. It felt like a good welcome. 

After breakfast, Anathema’s father, Androus, a man of few words, gripped Aziraphale by the shoulders before pulling him into a fierce hug. “Thank you,” he whispered near Aziraphale’s ear, before releasing his brother in law and stalking away to tend to his daily chores. Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel honored. Androus hadn’t said much to him in the long years of their acquaintance, but he knew that the man loved his daughter dearly. Even if he struggled with showing it. 

Once Aziraphale had bestowed more hugs and kisses to his brood of children, even giving Petunia a ride on his shoulders, for she refused to let him leave until he’d complied with her demands, he headed back to his niece’s rooms. He found Anathema awake and slowly sipping on the cup of broth her husband had brought her for breakfast. Her face split into a huge, sunny grin at the sight of him, and he leaned down to give her a careful hug, before sitting nearby in a chair that Newt pulled up for him. 

“So, uncle Zira, you have a lot to tell us,” Anathema began. “You’ve been gone almost a year.”

“I’ll tell you everything my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, “but first, how did the two of you meet?” he cast a smiling glance at Newt, who blushed and ducked his head. 

“Well,” Anathema began. “I heard there was a traveling merchant who’d come to town, with a caravan that might contain some new books…” 

“And that merchant was my step father, Shadwell,” supplied Newt with a grin. “And me of course, as his apprentice.”

“Yes,” continued Anathema, with a fond smile for her husband. “I stopped by to inquire about their books, and though Sir Shadwell’s manners left a lot to be desired, Newt here was quite helpful in walking me through their collection of novels and medical journals.” 

“My stepfather, he told me one day, I’d be stolen by witches if I wasn’t a good lad.” Newt said, “It’s how he got me to do my chores and stay quiet while he took his naps. Well, he was right about one thing. I  _ was _ stolen by a witch. At least… my heart was.” He reached out to stroke Anathema’s cheek gently with the back of his knuckles and she looked at him with such love in her eyes that Aziraphale briefly felt like he should step out of the room. 

“Gabriel was persuaded to allow him to marry me, because I swore that I’d make his life a living hell if he did not,” Anathema grinned. Aziraphale had no doubt that she could have accomplished her goal, and Gabriel probably knew it as well. She could be relentless when she found something she wanted. And apparently, an ex-tinker’s apprentice with soft eyes and a kind smile was the thing she’d wanted most. 

“Well, I’m ever so glad that you’ve found each other,” Aziraphale beamed at them, then rose impulsively to wrap Newt in an awkward but very heartfelt hug. “There,” he said. “Consider my blessing given.”

“As if there was any doubt,” Anathema teased. Then, like a cloud passing over the sun, her smile faltered and fell from her face. “I’m so sorry uncle. I should have been able to tell Newt or one of the chambermaids what to do to help with the delivery. I was just in so much pain, and I kept losing consciousness. I couldn’t think straight.”

Aziraphale forestalled her apology with a gentle squeeze to her arm. “It was not your fault,” he reassured her. “Thankfully, Cro-” he stumbled on the familiar use of Crowley’s name and quickly self corrected, “the beast allowed me to come to you. All is well now.”

“He  _ allowed _ you to come to me?” the icy resentment in Anathema’s tone caused Aziraphale to flinch guiltily.

“Please my sweet child,” he rushed to explain, “it’s far more complicated than you can know. The beast… he’s… a friend. A dear one. My leaving him has likely caused him great pain. It is all mixed up with the curse, and the castle and the invisible servants, and…”

“Uncle,” Anathema stopped his rambling with a soft hand over his, where it rested on her arm. “You have a lot to tell us. Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

And so Aziraphale did as he was told. He recounted his first night in the castle, the ghostly doors and chairs that moved of their own accord, the great feast, his lovely sleeping quarters. He told her of meeting Crowey, of his snake form and his man-form. He spoke of how at first, Crowley had been difficult to look at, of his scales and fangs and unearthly yellow eyes, but how they’d slowly become friends, and how he had grown easier and easier to look upon. 

When he told her about the great library, her eyes lit up with wonder, and Newt asked many questions about how books could exist that hadn’t been written yet, which took some careful explanations, though neither of them looked particularly enlightened when he’d finished. 

He spoke of how kind Crowley was to him. How funny he was and how interesting he was to talk to. He spoke of Crowley’s giant greenhouse and how he cared for his plants. And he told them about how he’d once been a spoiled, rebellious prince, cursed to live a half life as a beast for his crimes of shirking his family’s traditions. He told them of his and Crowley’s habit of having Aziraphale read to him daily, and how they ate dinner together every night. 

He saw a peculiar expression crossing his niece’s face and at a short break in his story, she interrupted him politely with a raised hand, then turned to Newt. “Darling husband, would you give my uncle and I some privacy. Just for a few moments.”

Newt looked a little confused, but he complied amiably, asking if she needed anything before he headed down to the hall to find a bite to eat. 

Once he’d gone, Anathema turned to Aziraphale and placed her hand over his own, giving it a squeeze. “Uncle Zira,” she said softly. “It is clear that you care for your beast, your Crowley very much.” 

Aziraphale paused, surprised at her simple statement, feeling a flush of heat climbing into his face at her clear implication. “That I do,” he responded gruffly, plucking self consciously at a loose thread on the edge of the blanket that covered her lap. “I care for him a great deal. He has become my dearest friend, second only to yourself.” 

“I think,” continued Anathema carefully. “I think that perhaps you feel more for him than friendship.” she said, pausing, still allowing him to confirm her suspicions, not wanting to state the obvious.

“Well, I… I erm… I feel very strongly about him, yes. He has been very kind to me, very good to me indeed. We have ever so many things to talk about, and he’s such a nice person really-”

“I think you’ve fallen quite helplessly in love with him in fact,” Anathema said, unable to help a broad smile from lighting up her face. 

“Oh Anathema, my dear! Don’t be presumptuous!” Aziraphale knew it was useless to deny his feelings, but also felt vulnerable and scared of voicing them out loud. He’d never done anything of the sort in all his life. “Of course I haven’t… I couldn’t… it wouldn’t be proper to say… I…” he seemed to have momentarily forgotten how to speak the English language, and his face now felt on fire with the heat of his embarrassed blush. His heart had started racing at the mention of him being in love with Crowley.  _ Crowely, _ whom he suddenly missed so much that he had trouble breathing at the mere mention of his friends’ name.

“Uncle please,” Anathema cajoled him gently. “It’s no use hiding it. I can see it as plain as day written all over your face. You love him.” She sighed happily and squeezed his hand again, satisfied that she’d figured out his secret heart. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth, prepared to make another desperate rebuttal, but the denial died on his lips as his mind filled suddenly with images of Crowley’s smiling face, Crowley’s waterfall of fire-red hair, Crowley’s kind yellow eyes, once so frightening, that were now so incredibly dear. 

“Yes my darling niece. You are correct,” he said, shoulders sagging in defeat, a shy smile on his lips as he gave her hand a returning squeeze. “I love him dearly. I love him to distraction. It just took me a while to admit it. In the beginning, he was so alien, so frightening. But now…”

“Now?” Anathema prompted him, her smile growing even broader. 

“Now,” sighed Aziraphale, “now, he looks beautiful to me. Even in his serpent form, he is rather lovely. I fear you speak the truth. I am quite hopelessly in love with him.” 

“Oh good! I’m ever so glad!” she clapped her hands happily. “Then uncle Zira, you must go to him at once!”

Aziraphale felt the truth of her words, but he was torn between two worlds. “I have a few more hours still to spend with you and Newt and little…” here he paused, looking over at the crib in the corner where their infant son slept, peacefully wrapped in a soft blanket, realizing that Anathema hadn’t yet told him his new great-nephew’s name. 

“Zira,” she replied, her eyes filling with happy tears. “Of course we’d name him after you. And don’t fight me on this uncle. We’ll simply call him ‘little Zira,’ and you ‘big Zira’ to avoid confusion.”

Aziraphale felt his own eyes watering at the news that his newest grand-nephew would share his name. “Oh, that’s just lovely,” he breathed, gripping her hands in both his own. “Thank you, Anathema.”

At this point, they both heard Newt’s awkward step on the stair, returning from his trip down to the great hall

Anathema turned to Aziraphale and rushed to explain, “Newt knows by the way. How you feel about men. I would never have married him if he didn’t accept my favorite uncle. I only asked him to leave so you’d have more privacy. To talk about your magical snake prince.” She winked at him, and he winked back, smiling, and feeling free to not have to deny his feelings. 

Newt rejoined them with more broth for Anathema and a pair of delightful looking pastries for he and Aziraphale. He ignored Anathema’s grumbling about how she would love to eat pastries too, and instead pushed the broth into her hands. “Like your uncle said, your stomach is too weak and upset to handle sugar and flour right now darling. But when you’re better, I’ll fatten you up immediately with a long stream of pastries and pies. You can eat them to your heart’s content.” He bent to kiss her brow and she smiled up at him.

It did Aziraphale’s heart good to see that his niece had someone to love her and watch over her. It would ease his mind when he returned to Crowley’s castle. 

Just the thought of Crowley made his heart race again. Now that the emergency of Anathema’s dangerous labor had passed, and he could see that she was clearly safe and well cared for, his mind returned to his dear beast. Would Crowley be worried about him? Was he missing Aziraphale the way Aziraphale missed him? He knew Crowley loved him, and he hadn’t found the courage or the peace of mind to tell his friend that his feelings were returned, before he’d rushed off to save his niece and grand-nephew. What if Crowley didn’t know how Aziraphale felt? How could he? Aziraphale had been polite and kind and open to Crowley’s offered friendship, to his cautious requests for touch as the great serpent. But Aziraphale had not been explicit. He hadn’t said the words,  _ I love you,  _ or  _ I adore you _ . Crowley though had said it to him, told him that he loved him, and in the same breath, allowed him to ride away from Crowley’s lands. What were the words he’d said? That if Aziraphale didn’t return, Crowley would surely die?

What had seemed irrational and dramatic from within his panic over Anathema’s fate, now seemed more like a dreaded reality as Aziraphale’s now-clear, calm mind recalled Crowley’s words. Crowley had said that he’d die without Aziraphale, as if it were a fact. As if it were something he’d known for a very long time. A thread of fear unspooled inside Aziraphale’s belly. 

“What’s wrong?” Anathema asked. “You look horrid all of sudden.”

“Oh my dear lord,” Aziraphale whispered. “I must return to him, at once.” Suddenly he  _ knew _ that something horrible would happen to Crowley if he didn’t go to him. It was a certainty he felt in his very bones. 

“Oh! Dear, well then go you must.” Anathema struggled to sit up further in her bed and Newt jumped to aid her. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. I have a lovely, strong husband to help me now,” she said, clearly excited by the prospect of her uncle rushing off to go to his true love. 

“But what if I can’t ever see you again?” Aziraphale felt tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. 

“Don’t worry about that uncle Zira. We’ll find a way. You came back once, you can come back again. Of that I am sure.”

“Oh my dearest girl,” Aziraphale clutched her hands in his own. “I fear I must go now. I have a terrible feeling that something bad will happen to him if I don’t go to him right away.” 

He kissed Anathema and hugged Newt again before rushing to the door of their rooms, only to run smack into Gabriel. His brother was standing in the doorway, a dark look on his face, hands on his hips. 

“Who is it that you  _ must go to  _ Aziraphale?” he asked, the threat clear in his voice. “Could it be that this beast, this  _ monster _ has hypnotized you into caring for him? Has he woken up some perverted desires that are best left well buried?”

Aziraphale backed away from his brother into Anathema’s bedroom, hearing a gasp from his niece at seeing her uncle Gabriel advance threateningly on Aziraphale. His brother must have arrived at Anathema’s door a few seconds ago, but had chosen to stay silent. No doubt hoping to catch something Aziraphale said that could be used against him. Aziraphale swallowed nervously, imagining what his brother might have overheard. 

“G-Gabriel. Crowley, the b-beast, he is not what you think he is,” Aziraphale stammered, still backing slowly away from Gabriel, who’s eyes held the gleam of a violent rage. “He’s kind, and caring and he-”

“Oh!  _ Kind and caring  _ is he?” Gabriel sneered as he spoke the words, turning a benediction into a hateful sort of slander. “ _ Kind and caring _ Aziraphale? Have you gone mad?! He is a horrid monster, and he clearly has you turned about and poisoned with his lies.” 

“No!” Aziraphale yelled his denial bravely into Gabriel’s twisted face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! You don’t  _ know  _ him!”

“And you do?” Gabriel’s sneer took on a sly expression, tinged with clear disgust. “Don’t tell me you’ve been  _ charmed _ by him, like you were by those boys when we were young. Don’t tell me you’ve felt those sick, disgusting urges towards this  _ monster _ .” Gabriel was red in the face now, his mouth a rictus of revulsion and rage. Aziraphale had never seen him so angry, so hateful. 

“Uncle Gabriel! Please! Leave Aziraphale be. He’s done nothing wrong.” Anathema, knowing she could do little to help protect Aziraphale from her sick bed, had still balled her hands into fists and was glaring at Gabriel as if she wished she could put said fists to good use against him. Newt, unsure how to behave while stuck in the middle of a family argument of such grand proportions, merely tried to stay out of the way, his wide eyes flicking back and forth between the two brothers. 

“How I feel is none of your business Gabriel,” Aziraphale stood up tall and looked his brother in the eye, refusing to shrink from his bullying yet again. “All I can say is that he is a good man, with a good heart and that I need to go to his aid at once. And so if you could please step aside…”

Gabriel drew himself up to his full height, which was unfortunately a head and a half taller than Aziraphale’s. “He’s not a  _ man _ by any stretch of the imagination,” Gabriel growled, “and you, my delusional big brother, are not going  _ anywhere _ .” And with that, his fist shot out and slammed into Aziraphale’s temple. 

Aziraphale fell back in shock, hitting the floor like a bag of flour, with a loud thud. The room around him started to dim, and the last thing he could hear before unconsciousness pulled him under was Newt’s shocked voice, “Sire! You mustn’t do this!” followed by a scuffle and Anathema screaming. Then the world went dark. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more mentions of blood and wounds and a bunch of angst in this chapter, but, it all works out in the end :)

Aziraphale awoke in the manor dungeons. Well, to call them ‘dungeons’ was quite generous. They were simply put, a pair of celler rooms that had been outfitted with iron bars so the people of Tadfield could have a place to keep ne'er-do-wells until they could be carted off for trial in one of the larger cities to the north or the east. Every once in a while, a villager would get too deep in his cups and throw his fists about, or (on one horribly memorable occasion), the baker’s wife had gone after her husband with a bread knife. It was an incident that thankfully only happened once, as the baker soon found a new bride with less homicidal tendencies. And when these sorts of things happened, the Fells needed someplace to lock up trouble makers. The cellar dungeon was rarely used. But it was a necessity. And unfortunately, it now held Aziraphale. 

He awoke lying on the cell’s one threadbare and very scratchy mattress, his head aching. The ache became an explosion of searing fireworks behind his eyes as he sat up with a groan of pain.  _ Gabriel attacked me _ . The thought drifted icily through his mind. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. It was no secret that his brother loathed him. Resented him. Was disgusted by him. But to attack Aziraphale violently? It still seemed extreme. 

Perhaps though, him overhearing Aziraphale’s kind words about rushing to ‘the beast’s’ aid had awoken a deeper hatred insided Gabriel, had driven him mad with rage. It was no secret that his brother hated those who loved their own sex. Hated men who loved men and women who loved women. Aziraphale had heard enough thinly veiled insults from his brother since his boyhood to last a lifetime. Perhaps hearing Aziraphale plead fealty to what he saw as a fearsome beast had awoken Gabriel’s twin fears and hatred of men like Aziraphale and his hatred of Crowley on general principal. The thought of Aziraphale being emotionally (or perhaps physically) close to Crowley would have been enough to push Gabriel over the edge into violence. 

There was a clanking of the cellar door and a patter of hurried footsteps, and Aziraphale turned expectantly to the door, praying it wasn’t Gabriel, coming to gloat and mock him. But to his surprise and pleasure, he saw Newt, a ring of rusty keys clasped in his hand. Newt, who was sporting a large bruise over his left temple. 

“Newt! Aziraphale cried when he saw his nephew in law. “Oh no Newt! What’s happened to you?” 

“I strongly disagreed with Gabriel punching you,” Newt explained with a sardonic grin. “Sort of threw myself at him. He got in a good wallop to my eye, but not before I got in a few jabs of my own.”

“Oh Newt, you are a brave soul,” Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile a little at his new in law’s dedication to his safety. “Where is Gabriel now?”

“Oh uncle Zira, he took off for your beast’s castle. Said he was going to kill him. He put guards outside Ana’s bedroom door to keep us from coming to release you. Ana pretty quickly convinced them to let us go, they like her so much more than Gabriel after all.”

“Yes, yes, that is very good,” Aziraphale rushed to cut Newt off as politely as he could. “Please open the cell door dear. I can’t let Gabriel hurt Crowley!” He felt a wild panic flaring inside his chest at the thought of Gabriel laying a finger on his beloved friend. 

Newt rushed to obey and after some confused fumbling to find the right key, he quickly had the cell door open. Aziraphale barely paused to thank him before rushing up the cellar steps and heading for the courtyard. Newt was right behind him. As they reached the stables, Aziraphale went to saddle Hazel, but Newt stopped him with a cautious hand to his elbow.

“Uncle Zira, I hate to say this, but Hazel has a reputation for being a bit… slow? I think you should take Max instead.” 

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks and gave Newt a shrewd look, but he nodded, knowing that the lad spoke the truth. He loved Hazel dearly, but she was rather plump and quite gray about the muzzle. Max on the other hand, was barely four years old, close to a 80 stone of solid, gleaming muscle and was mad as a hatter on top of that. If he survived the ride, Max would get him there in half the time. And he had a feeling that Crowley would not be able to help speed him along as he’d done on his way here from the castle the day before last. 

He nodded swiftly and went instead to Max’s stable. The large, black stallion eyed him with apprehension, but he knew Aziraphale. He also knew, somewhere in his horsey memory Aziraphale had a history of feeding him sugar cubes and bits of apple and that his mistress Anathema seemed fond of the man who approached him. And so he let Aziraphale saddle him up and mount him with little more than a brief dance sideways and an unsettled huff. 

Once he’d ridden out to the courtyard, he thanked Newt as he gently dug his stirrups into Max’s sides and then yelped as the massive stallion leapt forward with a surge of speed. Azriraphale could do little more than steer Max towards the road that led to Crowley’s castle and hang on for dear life as the large black horse sped forward. 

They rode for what felt like hours, through unfamiliar woods and wide plaines. No white mist descended to envelop them, and Aziraphale felt dread pooling unpleasantly in his chest to think that his dear Crowley might be dead already. As it stood, he was several hours late in returning to his love. He’d promised 48 hours, and with the delay of an hour or so of lying unconscious in the manor dungeons, he counted that at least fifty hours had elapsed by now. And that was not including this longer than average journey back to the castle. 

By the time the castle gates finally appeared, it was dusk, and they loomed above him as if out of nowhere, standing open and motionless in the gathering darkness. Aziraphale despaired at finding them ajar, but rode Max through them at top speed. Max was damp with sweat from riding hard for what could have been hours, but he was a strong horse and surprisingly dutiful and he kept up his swift pace as they raced down the gravel pathways of Crowley’s well kept grounds, racing for the castle’s main entrance. When the castle’s entrance came into view, Aziraphale was again deeply concerned to find the large wooden doors open, and at seeing nothing but darkness beyond them. To the side, near the stable doors, stood Gabriel’s horse, looking lost and neglected, reins dangling to the ground from it’s bridle. He threw himself out of Max’s saddle and ran into the castle, under the carving of the great snake that had caused him such trepidation on his first night in the castle, but which now only reminded him of his darling Crowley. 

  
  


He ran into the great hall, seeing the table empty and the torches dark, all except for one. He said a fervent thank you to whichever of Crowley’s servants had thought to leave a torch lit for him and grabbed it from its place on the wall, holding it aloft as he rushed to the door that led to the rest of the castle. He had no idea how he would find Crowley, presumably in his rooms, and he began by blindly rushing down hallway after hallway, through room upon room. Only a few candles were left lit for him to see by, and shadows haunted the castle’s interior, when usually it was kept aglow by the light of many lamps and lanterns and candelabras. It was yet another concerning change that made Aziraphale’s pulse quicken and only increased his resolve to find Crowley.

After what felt like an eternity of rushing down hallway after dark hallway, he heard the telltale sound of a man yelling, and knew it was his brother Gabriel. He was too far away still to discern what Gabriel was saying, but the tone of his voice was predictably hateful and angry, and he could guess that threats of some kind were being made. He turned in the direction of his brother’s voice and increased his speed to a flat out run. Luckily, Gabriel’s yelling served as a reliable beacon to lead him to Crowley’s rooms. He barrelled through the door, and then skidded to a stop at the horrid scene in front of him. 

Crowley, in his man form, lay on the floor, his hand up in a defensive gesture, and Gabriel stood over him, brandishing a sword, his face twisted into a rictus of hate.  _ Blood _ , there was blood darkening the side of Crowley’s blue tunic and staining the fingers of the hand he held up against Gabriel. Aziraphale felt his scalp tighten with fear and his breath rush from his lungs in a desperate huff.

“Gabriel! No! Don’t harm him!” Barely pausing in the doorway, he rushed into the room and flung himself at Gabriel, wrapping his arms around his brother’s thick waist, trying to tackle him to the ground. Gabriel though was too strong for him. He staggered slightly sideways, then slammed an elbow down into the top of Aziraphale’s head, causing him to release Gabriel and fall to the floor, writhing in pain. 

“ _ Aziraphale _ ,” Crowley said, weakly, his voice filled with pain and relief, and something else, harder to recognize in the chaos of the moment. 

“Yes!” yelled Gabriel. “It’s your  _ lover _ Aziraphale. My sick, twisted older brother, who lies with beasts and befriends devils. The two of you deserve one another. After I’m finished with you, I shall make quick work of him as well!” And again he raised his sword, clearly intending to finish Crowley off with a blow from his sharp blade. 

“The stone!” Aziraphale gasped out, his eyes locking with Crowley’s for a split second. “Use the stone!”

Crowley blessedly seemed to understand, for he held up the ruby he still had clenched in his other hand. “Help us!” he cried, pushing the large ruby towards Gabriel’s murderous face. 

Instantly a great wind blew through Crowley’s bedchamber. It had enough force to push Gabriel back a few paces, and then a swirling mist full of shining sparks rose up in a convoluted torrent between Crowley and Gabriel, slowly resolving itself into the form of a towering female figure. Though her image was gossamer thin, and opaque, and though she was three times the size she’d been in life, a glowing giant, two stories tall, Aziraphale immediately recognized his dear friend and surrogate mother. “Tracy,” he breathed, looking up at the great, sparking spectre that stood between his brother and his true love. 

“Gabriel Fell,” Tracy’s mouth opened and a gleaming light escaped it, like starshine, like moonlight when she spoke. She was younger in appearance and intimidating in stature, not the elderly woman who had passed away while Aziraphale had been sequestered in the castle. Instead she appeared as a goddess, full of awesome power and star stuff. “You’ve been quite a horrible prat,” Tracy finished, and Aziraphale’s eyes widened at her cheeky words. 

“M-Madam T-Tracy?” Gabriel, his face pale, his eyes darting over her massive, ghostly presence. “How… how is this possible? You’re dead. You died… I ki-” he stopped himself before he could finish his sentence, but not before Aziraphale realized what he’d been about to say. 

He scrambled to his feet and turned on his brother, rage bubbling up inside him so quickly that it took his breath away. “You… you killed her? You killed Tracy?” he asked, knowing already that his accusation was true, but needing to hear Gabriel confess. 

“Sh-she was bringing unclean elements into the kingdom. Dark magic and witchcraft!” Gabriel yelled in his own defense, as if anything he could have said would entice Aziraphale to forgive him. “I told everyone it had been the fever. It claims a few lives each year, and so n-no one was any wiser. And really Aziraphale, she was a detriment to our family. She was teaching the little ones her dark ways… I couldn’t…”

“It’s  _ you _ who are the monster Gabriel,” Aziraphale stepped to stand in between the massive spectre of Tracy and his stammering brother. Behind him, he felt the full force of her magic at his back, imbuing him with courage and strength. “She was like a mother to me, you horrible bastard. She was one of the people I loved most in the world.” He could sense, rather than see, the sparking ghost behind him raise her hand, and he raised his in tandem, so that they moved as one. He watched Gabriel’s eyes flick up to look with dread at the gleaming image of the town witch, towering above Aziraphale’s head. 

“I, I couldn’t let her ruin the peace of our kingdom,” he said, slowly backing away from Aziraphale. He’d dropped his sword and his face had gone white as driven snow. 

“She was good and kind and I loved her, and you killed her,” Aziraphale could hear his own voice, strong and loud and echoing as it rang from his mouth and simultaneously from Tracy’s. They moved as one being. Her power pulsed through his arms and legs and filled him up with glowing, pulsing light. He advanced on his brother, who backed away from him, toward the exit to Crowley’s rooms. He looked utterly terrified. 

“Leave this place,” Aziraphale’s voice boomed from two mouths, his own and Tracy’s. “Leave this castle and leave Tadfield and never return. You used to be a passably good ruler, but now, you’re a blight on the happiness of all who know you. Your kingdom suffers as long as you live within its borders.”

“B-but, my wife, my children.” 

“They’ll learn to live without you,” Aziraphale said coldly. He didn’t care about Gabriel’s needs, or Gabriel’s wishes any longer. He only knew his poisonous brother needed to leave and never come back. What if he decided to turn his ire against one of his own children? What if he accused Mina one day of practicing witchcraft? He had gone mad with power and fear and suspicion. It was high time for him to go.

Gabriel had backed his way to Crowley’s doorway, his face ghostly pale. “I h-have nowhere to go,” he stammered. In response, the massive vision of Tracy drew herself up to her full height, which was impressive, her head brushing the vaulted stone ceiling of Crowley’s bedchamber. “You may go anywhere but Tadfield kingdom and its surrounding lands. You may work with your hands, among the people you once spurned and derided. You may learn to be a kinder person, and perhaps one day, you will earn your way back to your people. Or, you may die in the mud at the side of the road. I care not which fate befalls you, as long as you leave at once.” 

And with that she reached a great hand back and swung it forward towards Gabriel, he toppled back, out of Crowley’s bedchamber and down a small set of stairs. Aziraphale hurried to the doorway to look down at him and saw Gabriel pick himself up, dust himself off, and with a terrified glance back at Aziraphale, where he stood, his brother ran off down a nearby hallway and out of sight. 

Without giving him a second thought, Aziraphale turned and looked up into the kind and loving face of his oldest friend, Tracy. She gazed down at him with deep fondness, and spoke again, her open mouth spilling eldritch light down upon him where he stood at her feet.    
  


“My dear Aziraphale. If you are seeing me now, it means that I am most likely gone from this world. This is the last of my power. The culmination of my life’s study of magic. I imbued the stone with all the magic I posses, so that one day, it could help you. Know that no matter where I am, I will always love you, my son.” Her large, sparkling face moved itself into a broad grin, and then she melted away, her essence evaporating into thin air, leaving nothing behind but a few glimmering points of light. 

As she faded from sight, Aziraphale could see beyond where she’d stood to Crowley, lying bleeding on the floor. With a strangled cry, he rushed to him, falling to his knees and gathering Crowley’s upper body into his lap. Using one arm to support Crowley’s head, he brought his other hand up to gently hold the side of Crowley’s face, and gazed down into his love's bright yellow eyes. Crowley looked weakly back up at him, his face pale and gaunt, his lids fluttering with the fight to keep them open. Aziraphale looked down at the wound in Crowley’s side, seeing his doublet soaked with blood. Too much blood.  _ He’s lost too much blood,  _ The thought pierced through his mind, causing chills of fear to spill down his spine. 

“Darling,” he begged, his voice rough and ragged with fear. “Darling, keep your eyes open. Stay awake for me, yes? Please.” 

He saw Crowley’s lovely, pale lips twitch up into a cautious smile, as if even that small movement took him a world of effort. “You came back,” he rasped, his voice a rough whisper. “I thought for sure you’d left me for good.”

“No Crowley! No of course not! I could never leave you. I could…I could never…” Aziraphale felt a welling up of despair as he watched Crowley’s life well up and seep away through the sword wound in his side. A parting gift from Gabriel. 

“Shhh. Hush angel. I have some things I need to say,” Crowley coughed wetly and tried to move in Aziraphale’s arms, but Aziraphale shook his head, mutely telling Crowley to stay still and waiting for him to speak. His vision blurred with tears and they fell from his eyes to splash against Crowley’s scaled cheek. 

“Don’t cry,” Crowley said, oh so softly, making an effort to reach up and touch Aziraphale’s face with trembling, black tipped fingers. 

“Don’t move Crowley.  _ Don’t move _ . Save your strength… if you’ll just save your strength, I can go down to the kitchens, get a needle and thread and some herbs. I-if the wound is not too deep, i’ll fix you right up.” 

“It’s alright Aziraphale,” Crowley cut him off weakly, his voice as soft and quiet as the wind through early autumn leaves. “I don’t have much time left, but.. I need you to know.. That I love you Aziraphale. I… I’ve loved you from the first time we spoke.”

“Please Crowley,” Aziraphale begged, sobbing, his grip on Crowley’s face tightening, as if he could keep Crowley tethered to this earth with his hands alone. “Please, don’t go. Just give me a few minutes to go fetch some supplies.  _ Please _ .” He knew he sounded desperate, his voice ragged and sharp with panic, but he couldn’t let it end like this. Couldn’t let Crowley tell him he loved him, then die in his arms. 

Crowley ignored his pleas a second time and instead let his eyes flick over to the corner of the room. “The rose. It’s last petal is about to fall,” he said. Aziraphale looked up and saw that he spoke the truth. The mysterious rose in the glass case on the nearby table, the rose he’d never thought to ask Crowley about. Only one final petal clung to it’s withering stem. And as he watched, that petal, as if waiting for Aziraphale to give it his undivided attention in order to make its exit, detached from the top of the stem and floated downward. It sailed gracefully down through the air, tipping this way and that on its descent, then landed on the floor of the enclosure soundlessly, rocking back and forth gently a couple of times from the momentum of it’s drop, and then sitting still. Like a blood red teardrop among a profusion of its fallen brothers. 

Aziraphale heard Crowley sigh deeply in his arms, heard him whisper, “at least I got to see you one more time,” but when he turned his blurred gaze back to Crowley’s face, he found his love’s eyes closed and the skin of his face, between his stripes of dark scales a deathly pale white. Crowley’s chest wasn’t moving any longer. He was gone. 

Aziraphale heard a noise rip from the back of his throat. A keening, desperate, animal noise that he did not recognize as coming from his own human chest. He wrapped his arms around Crowley’s still body and pulled him into a fierce embrace and sobbed as if his heart was breaking in two. 

“No! He groaned into Crowley’s tear-damp hair. “No! You can’t die! You can’t leave me Crowley!”

He leaned back so that he could see his love’s still face, slack and pale in death, and bent down to press his lips softly against Crowley’s. He’d wanted to kiss this beautiful, kind man for oh so long. At least he could say farewell by kissing him now, even if Crowley could never return his kiss, could never laugh with him or hold him again.

“I love you so much my darling. So very much,” he choked out against Crolwey’s soft, lifeless lips. “I love you with all my heart.” Then he wrapped Crowley back up in his embrace and rocked him, sobbing out all his pain and sadness. 

Suddenly, he felt a rumbling, as if the stones of the castle moved beneath him. He heard a deep booming noise and felt a rush of violet scented air blow past him, ruffling his hair. He thought perhaps Crowley’s castle was falling apart, and if so, he supposed there were worse ways to die, than with the love of one’s life wrapped in one’s arms. But the castle did not dissolve beneath him. The warm breeze, unseasonal and smelling of fresh flowers blew itself out, and he dared to lift his head. He felt Crowley move suddenly in his arms, watched as the man’s chest rose and fell sharply with the intake of a new breath. 

“Crowley,” he whispered in awe and watched as Crowley’s eyes drifted open. Suddenly, a glowing light came from nowhere and everywhere at once, surrounding them both in a brilliant flash so bright that Aziraphale was forced to clench his eyes shut to keep from going blind. He pulled Crowley close to him again, wanting to shield him from the glare, his mind reeling from the strange events transpiring around him. 

Eventually, the light faded and Aziraphale dared to open his eyes. The first thing he saw was that a beautiful man lay in his arms, looking up at him with eyes full of deep emotion. The man looked familiar in a way that tickled in the back of his exhausted, addled brain. His pale skin and high cheekbones and soft well formed lips evoked a spark of recognition inside Aziraphale’s mind. The man’s eyes were a pale, light brown that bordered on golden, and his hair, long and red was streaked with strands of silver. He was the most breathtakingly lovely man Aziraphale had ever laid eyes on, and he felt himself flush with embarrassment at realizing that he had his arms wrapped around this handsome stranger. 

_ In his arms… _ Crowley  _ was the one in his arms. But how... _

“ _ Crowley _ ?” he asked, his eyes going wide with shock as recognition finally broke through the haze of confusion. “Crowley? Is that you?” 

“Yes angel, it’s me,” Crowley affirmed quietly, smiling in a way that made his golden eyes crinkle at the corners, and made Aziraphale’s stomach explode with fluttering butterfly wings. Now that Crowley was speaking, his voice sounding richer and fuller than Aziraphale had ever heard it. The familiar serpent rasp that usually accompanied his speech was gone.

“But… but… you look… you look... just like that young man in the portrait,” Aziraphale said numbly. “That young prince in the painting.”

That was why Crowley, transformed as he was, had looked so familiar. Without his scales and yellow eyes and sharp incisors, he looked exactly like the youth from that old painting. “It’s you,” he breathed. “You are the… the hundred year old prince.”

“That was a long time ago,” Crowley admitted, regret pooling in his lovely golden eyes. “I’ve lived under this horrid curse for so long, it’s very difficult to remember what that young man was like.”

“But, why did you never tell me,” Aziraphale, confused and enchanted by Crowley’s beauty, gently pressed a red curl behind his ear. 

“I couldn’t, my angel. The curse did not permit it. I was only to be freed by being bestowed with true love’s kiss before the last petal fell. It appears though,” he said with a rueful smile, “that I was given a bit of an extension.” 

Aziraphale looked quickly to Crowley’s side, once drenched in blood and found it miraculously clean and whole, his doublet unsoiled. “Y-you died,” he stammered. 

“Yes, I think I did for a bit. But your love brought me back angel.” Crowley smiled up at him, and the tender loving kindness in his eyes made Aziraphale want to duck his head and hide from such obvious affection. Who was he to deserve such adoration from a beautiful prince? Who was he to have ever earned such love from Crowley’s snake-self? He realized suddenly that Crowley being part beast had not lessened his beauty, nor his magnetism one ounce. If Crowley had never transformed back to the beautiful man he now held in his arms, Aziraphale would still have loved him deeply. 

“You must forgive me Aziraphale,” Crowley’s warm, sonorous voice broke through his musings. “I forced you to come here against your will,” he said, his expression turning regretful, perfect brows knitting over golden eyes that darkened with worry. “I only did it because it was foretold that I would find my heart’s true companion after ninety years. But perhaps I should have found another way. And you must know, my threats were empty. Had you refused to come, I would not have destroyed your people’s crops.”

“No, Crowley, no, don’t give that any thought. After getting to know you, I understand that It was all you could do to try and save your own life, and that you’d never harm me or my people. And look,” he exclaimed brightly. “It worked. I fell madly in love with you.” He smiled down at Crowley, wanting ever so much to kiss him again, but he held back, not knowing if Crowley was still weak or overwhelmed. 

Crowley smiled up at him, his face still looking a bit sad. “Still, I should not have put you in that position. I should have found a way to ask you. I was just desperate and full of fear, and your brother made me so angry.”

“Well,” sighed Aziraphale. “Hopefully we won’t have to worry about him anymore. Tracy banished him, though I’m not sure how.” He felt a stab of worry over Gabriel’s wife and children's reactions to his exile. That was something he would have to help them through, if they'd let him. A problem for another time.

“I can’t say as I’ll miss him,” remarked Crowley grimly. “I should have killed him when I had the chance.” He moved as if trying to get up, and Aziraphale rushed to help him. Soon the red haired man with the gorgeous alabaster skin and flashing golden eyes was standing in front of Aziraphale, smiling at him with that loving look again.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Aziraphale said, ducking his head, feeling far too seen and far too admired by this flame haired vision standing before him. “We can’t protect the world from men like Gabriel if we stoop to his level and resort to violence.” 

Crowley nodded and sighed, showing that he understood and reluctantly agreed. Then he stepped closer to Aziraphale, his hands, smooth and elegant and fully human, coming up to gently grip his upper arms.

“Crowley, I know that you said you loved me,” Aziraphale started, made suddenly quite nervous by this beautiful man’s proximity, “but I also know that I am drab and dull and bookish and not at all suited to be the … erm… companion of a prince.” 

“Please shut up,” Crowley said softly, and pulled Aziraphale to him and pressed their lips together. Their mouths happily got acquainted while Aziraphale felt Crowley’s strong arms come around his waist, holding him tightly. He made a soft, helpless noise in the back of his throat as the kiss deepened, his skin afire with pleasant tingles at the feel of being in Crowley’s arms again, feeling Crowley’s lips against his. 

After a few thrilling moments, Aziraphale pulled away gently, looking up into Crowley’s glowing eyes. They were both breathless, and Aziraphale felt his head spinning from the beautiful scent of Crowley’s skin, the taste of his lips and tongue still sweet and lingering in Aziraphale’s mouth. “You,” said Crowley, his voice gone gruff with desire, “are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Both inside and out.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said weakly, “Crowley, I-”

“Marry me,” Crowley said, his smile breaking like a golden sunrise across his face. “Be my husband. Please.” 

“Oh Crowley, I.. I’d love to.. I would, but.. We’re two men. We couldn’t. No church in the land would recognize-”

“I don’t care,” Crowley interrupted him with another soft kiss. He pulled back again, running the pad of his thumb gently back and forth along Aziraphale’s lower lip in a highly distracting fashion while gazing into Aziraphale’s eyes. “I am a king, and what I say is law,” Crowley’s smile grew wider at Aziraphale’s surprised look. “I want my husband by my side, and I’ll rewrite the laws to get what I want. So… will you? Marry me?”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh with joy at Crolwey’s irreverent promises. “Of  _ course _ ! Of course I will, my darling.” He grinned back at Crowley, then pulled him close again, and then there was more kissing. The kind of kissing that made Aziraphale’s knees weak and his insides flutter. 

Eventually, Crowley pulled away again, reluctantly. “We have much to do, angel. The castle’s servants are finding their human forms again, and all sorts of things will be waking up and needing my attention. The curse has been broken, and so your family are free to visit you, and you them, whenever you wish. I trust all went well with your niece,” his face clouded briefly with worry, but Aziraphale was quick to dispel it by telling Crowley that Anathema and the baby were safe and sound. 

“Good, I’m so glad to hear it,” Crowley replied with a fond smile. “They should all be invited to the wedding. And you’ll have your hands full, helping me upkeep this place. That is, if you’d like to live here? We don’t have to. We can go wherever your heart desires. We can live in Tadfield if you prefer.”

“No,” Aziraphale said softly, reaching up to cup Crowley’s face in his hands. “I love it here. It feels more like home to me now than Tadfield does. Though I would dearly love for us to visit with my family often.” 

“We’ll do that then. I can’t wait to meet them,” Crowley smiled down at him, and Aziraphale felt his heart swell painfully inside his chest at the devotion and longing reflected in those amber eyes. 

“Oh Crowley, I’m so in love with you,” he breathed, before pulling that soft mouth down to his own.

And then there was more kissing. 


	16. Chapter 16

When they left Crowley’s rooms, it was hand in hand, Aziraphale’s lips still singing with the memory of Crowley’s kisses.

Together, they walked down a long hallway and back out to the great room. Standing there, in a neat row, in front of the large dining table were five people. Aziraphale recognized them at once, and ran forward, grinning, to clasp Katherine’s hands in his own. She was a matronly figure. Plump and stern, with thick head of silver hair, pulled back into a tight bun. Her face broke open with a shy smile when Aziraphale ran to her and she gave his hands a warm squeeze. 

“Master Aziraphale,” she said, clearly trying to maintain her brusque manner and failing, her smile growing wider as she looked up into his beaming face. “It is so good to see you at last… or rather, to be seen.” 

“Oh Katherine, there is no way I can thank you for being so kind and good to me all this time.” 

“Start by wearing some of those fine clothes I went to all the trouble to make for you,” she said with a mock frown. “Been trying to get you to dress like a prince for months now, and you’ve quite stubbornly resisted me.” 

Aziraphale smiled even brighter. “Perhaps I shall,” he replied with a wink. 

Next he moved on to Tristan, who stammered out a shy hello and whom Aziraphale pulled into a fierce hug. Then to Edward, who gave Aziraphale a lopsided smile and a firm handshake, and joked about how he’d have to deal with Edward’s ugly face from now on. Isabel was standing next to Edward, looking slight and pale, but with a similar sly, irreverent look to her dark brown eyes. She cast those eyes flirtatiously in Edward’s direction in a way Aziraphale knew only too well meant that she had a crush on the impish young man. Aziraphale kissed her cheek and thanked her as well, before bowing respectfully to the stiff looking butler with the distinguished silver streaks in his hair, who must be Jonathan. 

“It’s so good to see you all in the flesh,” he said. “You may not have known it, but I could actually hear you speaking… after a while.” 

“I told you!” Tristan elbowed Edward. Edward looked contrite. 

As they walked from the great hall out into the courtyard, Aziraphale noticed that several things had changed. It was colder outside than it usually would be on the beast's lands. It was barely the beginning of March, and the frigid breaze that ran its fingers through Crowley’s firy hair was the appropriate temperature for this time of year. So the magic that kept the castle’s weather constantly mild had released some of its hold. 

Aziraphale also noted that great swaths of ivy had grown up over several of the decorative statues and hedges around Crowley’s lands, and that some structures had crumbled, as if from old age. 

Crowley saw Aziraphale’s confusion and explained. “The castle was kept unchanged by the curse for almost one hundred years. Now that the curse has been broken, some damage from the time that’s passed will encroach upon the lands again. And upon my physical body. As you can see,” he waved an elegant, pale hand, free of scales at his own face, “I too have aged a little in the process. Probably a few years for every decade that I lived under the curse.”

And yes, Crowley’s hair was accented by silver at the temples, and his eyes, before framed by onyx scales, were now creased with a fine web crows feet. It only served to make him more handsome in Aziraphale’s opinion, and he said so.

“Flattery will get you more kisses,” Crowley warned, and Aziraphale felt himself flush with heat. 

Tristan rushed out to help unsaddle and brush down Max, but Aziraphale stopped him with a gentle hand. “I’ll do that Tristan. I’d like to do a lot more things for myself. I fear that the five of you have spoiled me quite thoroughly.”

“Very well sir,” Tristan smiled and bowed. “Let us know what we can do to help and we’ll gladly do it.”

“Don’t you have families? Friends?”

“They sacrificed all of that when they were cursed along with me,” Crowley explained, his voice thick with regret. “Tristan,” he addressed the nervous man in the dark servant’s livery. “You are free to go. We can find new servants. People who’ll sign on for pay to serve us of their own free will, as it should be. I’ll pay you and the rest of the servants handsomely and you can go your own ways now.”

“That’s mighty kind of you sir,” Tristan replied. “But this is the only home I’ve known for a century. I’ll talk to the others and we shall see what we all want to do moving forward.” 

“That sounds good Tristan. I would have gone mad of loneliness were it not for the five of you. All any of you has to do is ask, and I’ll give you whatever your heart desires.”

Tristan bowed and stepped away, leaving Aziraphale alone with Crowley again. Together, they brushed down Max and made sure he was fed and watered. Anathema would never forgive Aziraphale if a single hair on Max’s head were harmed, and so he planned on returning him to her, very well fed and happy. 

Gabriel and his horse were gone from Crowley’s lands, and Aziraphale asked if there was a way for Crowley to tell where he went. 

“Not quite,” replied Crowley. My magic naturally wove itself together with Tracy’s to make sure he could not set foot on Tadfield’s soil again… unless he has a miraculous change of heart. I agree with you now, and don’t want my magic to be used for nefarious purposes or for violence. And I don’t think Tracy would have wanted that either. But suffice to say, he shall need to find a way to survive on his own, among the very people he reviled. Those who practice magic. Those who love outside of god’s supposed will. Those who are simple and plain and who don’t have any patience for arrogant men such as himself. I’m sure he’ll find it humbling after a few decades.”

Aziraphale nodded, feeling glad that his brother had not been killed. Killing Gabriel would have tarnished them, and the beautiful memory of Tracy, made them murderers, just like Gabriel, and that didn’t seem right.

“Would you care to join me for dinner Crowley?” he asked. 

“Only if you’ll marry me,” Crowley replied with a sly grin. 

“Very well then, dinner and a wedding. That can be arranged,” Aziraphale smiled back at him, his heart swelling with love for this beautiful, kind man at his side. “Shall we?” He offered Crowley his arm, and Crowley happily took it. Then the two of them walked together to the great hall.

This time, no magic was used in the creation of their meals. Tristan and Isabel prepared them some roast chicken and set out loves of bread, along with a simple broth soup, and they all sat down together to eat. Aziraphale felt like he had a new family. It was a lovely feeling indeed, to be surrounded by people who understood and respected him. 

A sudden thought occurred to him and he put down the forkful of chicken he’d been about to put into his mouth. “All that food before? It was prepared by the use of magic?” he asked his handsome fiance. 

“Yes,” replied Crowley, and knowing what Aziraphale’s next question would be, he continued. “Anything we did not eat somehow made its way to the tables of orphanages and poor houses in nearby cities. It was the least I could do.” 

“You’re quite a nice man, you know that,” Aziraphale smiled at Crowley as the other man ducked his head and blushed. 

“Shut up angel,” he mumbled fondly, covering for his embarrassment by shoving a bite of bread and butter into his mouth. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vague mentions of wedding night sexy times...

It was a beautiful spring wedding. To Crowley’s delight, many of the people Aziraphale invited from Tadfield were in attendance. It seemed that among all the people of Tadfield, few were as unnerved as Gabriel had been by Aziraphale’s differentness, or his desire to marry another man. And although he suspected it was Aziraphale’s pure lovableness that made some of them as tolerant as they were being on this day, It nevertheless gave Crowley hope for the future of the kingdom. Deirdre and Arthur Young and their son Adam came. Petunia and Thomas and their parents, Uriel and Sandalphon (grumbling but in attendance) and their wives all came as well. Michael and Androus attended as well, and of course Anathema and Newt, with little baby Zira in tow. 

Aziraphale looked particularly angelic and beautiful in his white velvet doublet and white breeches. His halo of white-blond curls gleamed in the early spring sunshine, and Crowley thought his heart might burst in his chest at the sight of his beloved husband to be. 

Crowley wore black satin with white lace at his throat and cuffs. It had always suited him, and Aziraphale assured him that he looked quite dashing. Isabel had done his hair up in an intricate plait that he wore, slung over one shoulder, as he had in his youth.

In the weeks leading up to the wedding, Aziraphale had developed a very pleasing habit of grabbing Crowley and pulling him into side rooms and down dim hallways to kiss him. He did it at unpredictable times, and it always had Crowley’s breath catching in his throat and had lust pooling deep inside his belly when Aziraphale would suddenly press his soft lips against Crowley’s and bury his hands in Crowley’s hair. 

They’d uniformly decided to save their first time being truly intimate together for their wedding night. Aziraphale swore it was a nod to the traditions of his homeland, but Crowley suspected that his fiance simply wanted to tease him with kisses until he lost his mind with lust. 

The ceremony was delightful, presided over by Anathema, who’d offered to stand in when the current Tadfield priest had refused to take part. Crowley, true to his word, declared that anyone who lived on his lands or in any surrounding villages were free to love and marry anyone they chose, no matter the gender. This decree was swiftly taken advantage of by Jonathan and Tristan, who surprised the castle’s current inhabitants by having a small ceremony of their own, shortly after winning their freedom from the curse. They now sat, hand in hand, casting soft looks at each other, in the front row of pews in the castle’s little-used chapel where Aziraphale and Crowley’s wedding was to take place. 

Crowley could barely focus through the majority of the ceremony. He was overwhelmed with joy, but also nervous to be the center of attention after so many decades of hiding himself in the shadows. He’d grown so accustomed to seeing himself as a horrible monster. It had taken time and patience for him to accept that Aziraphale loved him, had loved him even as a serpent… even with scales marring his body and with his demonic-yellow eyes. Now everyone looked at him the way Aziraphale did, with awe and wonder, and it made him want to hide somewhere dark. To slither away and curl up as he once did as the snake. The arrogance and vanity of his youth had been completely broken, and he’d need to build himself back up to a normal, healthy level of self esteem in the wake of one hundred years spent as a reviled beast. 

Apparently though, the skill of becoming a serpent and slipping away to a dark corner was forever lost to him, and he was forced to face the world, and his adoring husband, with a countenance that everyone seemed enchanted by. It would take some getting used to. All he ever wanted was Aziraphale’s love, and so he resolved to ignore the compliments and the admiration of his people and the Tadfieldians. They did not know how unimportant looks truly were when one finds true love. 

Soon, Anathema was finishing their vows, vows Crowley had numbly repeated while staring into Azirpahale’s gleaming blue-gray eyes. “You may now kiss,” she said with a warm smile, and Crowley gratefully pulled Aziraphale’s lips to his own, lost in a swell of love for his beautiful new husband. 

_________________________________________________________

The wedding night was truly wonderful. They started out slowly, cautiously, lying together in their night clothes and kissing chastely to grow accustomed to being this close to one another, to finally being in a bed together. Aziraphale had insisted they sleep apart until this night, which was wise, as Crowley strongly doubted he could have kept his hands to himself for more than five minutes had he been allowed to sleep next to his love. 

Soon, after several careful kisses and tentative touches, months of suppressed desire and longing broke through, and things progressed quite naturally and enjoyably. Crowley let his mouth and his hands begin to wander, spurred on by the delightful noises spilling from Aziraphale’s mouth as he did so. 

Aziraphale was a virgin, and Crowley had not lain with a man in so long that his virginity was as good as reclaimed. And so they made love slowly and carefully, with many soft kisses and gentle touches and whispered assurances. They both ended up a bit stunned, breathless and tangled up together at the end of it. 

The second time was not as gentle. It was rougher, more urgent, and Crowley delighted in pulling gasps of pleasure from his new husband. Delighted in exploring his beautiful body with his mouth and hands, making Aziraphale cry out and arch against him. It was more than Crowley ever dreamed it could be. Afterwards, when Crowley was pleasantly sated and delightfully spent, they lay, wrapped in each other's arms.

“If I had known it could be like this,” Aziraphale said softly, running gentle fingers through Crowley’s hair, “I’d have insisted we make love far sooner.” 

Crowley smiled against Aziraphale’s chest, where his head was currently quite comfortably nuzzled. “I wanted very much to make love to you that day when I woke up in your arms on the sofa,” he confessed.

“Oh I did as well,” Aziraphale replied. “I was so sorry that you ran from me. The feel of your body against mine, it… well, it was quite affecting.” 

Crowley’s smile faltered. “I’m sorry I ran, or rather, slithered away. I was a fool. I thought you were disgusted by me.”

“There is nothing to forgive Crowley,” Aziraphale placed a soft kiss to the top of Crowley’s head and squeezed him tightly in his arms. “Neither of us had a map for how to behave. Neither of us knew what the other was thinking. I’m just glad you’re in my arms now. And I plan on never letting you go.”

“That is a plan I can work with,” replied Crowley, fully mollified as he cuddled closer and squeezed Aziraphale back. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, sounding cautious.

“What is it angel?” Crowley lifted his head and looked drunkenly up into Aziraphale’s worried face.

“You’ll tell me when you’re ready to make love again won’t you?” Azirpahale asked, blushing prettily. “Because I could be ready now, if it pleases my husband.” 

Crowley grinned a slow, serpentine grin and leaned up to kiss Aziraphale softly, in a way that held the promise of more pleasure to come in the tingling press of their lips together. “Oh angel, I could be ready now. Now would be very agreeable,” he said gruffly.

“Good,” Aziraphale replied with a wicked grin of his own, rolling over on top of Crowley and recapturing his mouth in a heated kiss. 

Crowley felt so happy, pressed deliciously into the soft mattress beneath him, his new husband’s surprisingly skilled mouth moving with delightful friction against his own. He felt loved, fully loved and adored for the first time in almost a century. 

“I love you angel,” he murmured against Aziraphale’s lips.

“I love you to, you silly old serpent,” Aziraphale replied, and then, there was no time for talking. Only more kisses.


End file.
